


Bad Parenting

by NerdySpaceBean



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdySpaceBean/pseuds/NerdySpaceBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When working a case in Indiana, a familiar-looking spirit saves Dean from being killed. But is it too good to be true? Set mid-season 4(ish), after Sam learns about Dean's memories of Hell and onward from there. Alternate plot, I guess. Rated T for violence. References to Destiel at some parts. (Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Parenting

Red. Everywhere. The colour was as intense as the blood running in gory rivers down his body, over other, more profound wounds. He was surrounded by millions of identical souls screaming in the excruciating pain they were forced to endure every day under the wrath of the most sadistic demons Hell could conjure up. But the worst were saved for him.   
Strung up in what seemed to be oblivion, barely withstanding thick, iron chains penetrating into his delicate flesh with their brutally unrelenting grip, he called out for his brother for what had to be the thousandth time, his voice so hoarse it was barely comprehensible. Still, the pain refused to cease. His torture was eternal, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He still heard his brother whispering his name as he had faded away into this Hell, desperate, longing for him to hear…  
“Dean…”  
“Dean!”  
“Dean! Wake up!” Sam yelled at his older brother as he remained reluctant to regain consciousness, despite the fact that it was clearly causing him discomfort. A moment later, Dean jolted awake with a start, his attentive green eyes wide open. He realised he was drenched in sweat from his recurring nightmare, which was awaiting him every time he drifted into sleep, no matter how tired he was or how much he drank before becoming unconscious. The young hunter was constantly plagued by memories of his time down below, yet he refused to let on to Sam how much his nightmares got to him; how terrified he was of Alastair, the most malevolent torturer of all, and his inevitable return. However, Dean was dragged out of his thoughts by his brother’s voice yet again.  
“Dean, are you okay? Were you having nightmares again?” The younger Winchester’s face was full of concern, a definite crease present between his eyebrows and a slight frown upon his lips.  
“Nah, I’m fine, Sammy.” Dean replied in as reassuring a voice as was possible, since he couldn’t quite muster up a smile so soon after waking up. Eager to change the subject, he dragged a hand down the full length of his face and sighed wearily, addressing his brother once again. “What time is it, anyway?”  
“Uh… Just after four-thirty.” Sam stated, peering over his laptop (which was placed on a table in front of him, omnipresent as it was) at the clock on the wall. They were staying in yet another cheap motel in Virginia after finishing a case around seven hours ago. It was the usual residence for the brothers: hideous brightly patterned wallpaper, hard therefore uncomfortable mattresses and a not-entirely-hygienic en-suite bathroom. Obviously, it wasn’t the ideal lifestyle, but they were used to it by now, after pretty much living that way since they were far too young.   
Dean groaned at Sam’s remark of the time and almost went straight back to sleep again, but knowing that slumber was only a false sense of security prevented him from doing so. “Aw, man! This is way too early for anything. You’re not seriously telling me you’ve found a job? At this unholy hour?”  
“Yeah, afraid so. Then again, you were the one who wanted to be distracted – I’m only providing cases because you told me to, Dean.”  
“I guess… Although I’m sure as hell regretting that already.” Dean sighed again, and then continued. “Well, what do we got?” He asked, reluctantly standing up and beginning to pack his things, ready to go.  
“Fort Wayne, Indiana. A guy was found hanged yesterday morning in his apartment without warning. Doors and windows locked. According to the local cops, it was physically impossible for him to hang himself at that height and position.” Sam read from the various articles he had up on his laptop, like he had many times before. Dean raised his eyebrows.  
“So? Could just be a generic suicide. Doesn’t seem like much of a case to me, Sam.” The older brother remained sceptical.  
“Maybe. But, get this; there have been three more deaths in the same town, completely identical, in the last week alone.” Sam raised his eyebrows back at his brother as Dean’s expression rapidly changed from wary to accepting.  
“Fair enough. What are you thinking, vengeful spirit, something like that?”  
“Sounds like it. Plus, we have gone much further for a lot less…” Sam trailed off, staring up hopefully at his brother, his expression verging on his infamous puppy-dog eyes. He disliked his research accounting for nothing.  
Dean nodded, giving in, heading over to the bathroom for a wash after finishing up carelessly throwing clothes into his holdall. “Sure, it’s worth checking out. It’s only a couple of states over. If we set off now, we could be there by mid-morning.”  
As his brother splashed his face with tepid water from the rusty motel taps, Sam hastily shut down his laptop and packed it in his rucksack along with the unloaded gun from the top drawer next to his bed – he had already pre-packed his clothes, figuring he would find a job for Dean to jump on pretty soon. As he pulled on his jacket and waited patiently at the door, Dean’s head appeared around the corner of the bathroom door.  
“Dude, what were you doing up at this time, anyway?” The older brother looked rather comical, his hair still stuck up at all angles, since he hadn’t time to brush or style it in any way, and a toothbrush half-hanging out of the corner of his mouth, crusted in white toothpaste which was rapidly drying. His eyebrows were pulled low over his sleep-encrusted eyes in confusion, as if he simply couldn’t comprehend his younger sibling’s willingness to be up in the early hours of the morning, researching cases and not even expressing grumpy tendencies.   
“Couldn’t sleep.” Sam replied nonchalantly. Dean shrugged and disappeared back into the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth quickly and following his brother out of the motel with his bags. The young (and older) Winchesters almost smiled to themselves. They were both pretty sick of the tiring demon and angel activity going on recently, so it was good to be able to forget all the rubbish that was ridiculously forced upon them; there was nothing better than a good old-fashioned hunt.   
***  
Dean felt far better once he had been driving for a few hours. The familiar bumps and movement of the Impala underneath him immediately comforted him, and the soft leather of the car seat hugged him lovingly while he drove. As the hypnotic purr of the engine lulled him into a trance of sorts, Dean found he could almost completely forget all about his agonizing nightmares and his near constant torment and anxiety as a result of it. Glancing briefly over at his little brother, whose head was beginning to nod and his eyes close, the older Winchester allowed himself a smirk. He was happy; for the moment, at least. And since contentedness was a rare and temporary emotion for Dean or any of the members of his cursed family, he decided to savour it while it still lasted.  
At just after 2pm, Dean pulled up in another motel car park in Indiana, reaching out to shake Sammy in order to wake him, then hesitating and re-thinking his plan. Being in a cheerful mood made the hunter more likely to joke around, therefore he grabbed a flask of holy water out of his jacket pocket and quietly twisted off the lid. Before his brother could wake up and avoid his juvenile yet amusing prank, Dean splashed about a quarter of the flask directly onto Sam’s face, unable to resist bursting into laughter as Sam sat bolt upright in an instant, gasping and thrashing out haphazardly at what he probably expected to be a demon or something, but what was simply his own immature brother. When he recovered and realised the situation, the younger Winchester looked extremely ticked off.  
“Water? Really? Dude, could you be more childish?” Sam sighed in exasperation, shaking his head in disappointment.   
“Heh heh,” Dean chuckled mischievously. “What’s up? Can’t take a joke now, Sammy?” He teased, grinning as he hastily stepped out of the car before his brother got the chance to punch him. He certainly looked like he was about to.   
“Come on, man. There is no way we’re starting up that stupid prank war again – it’s honestly ridiculous.” Sam complained as he followed suit by exiting the vehicle and slamming the door with somewhat more force than was necessary.  
“Well, someone’s got their knickers in a twist.” The older Winchester couldn’t resist another dig at Sam as he began strolling across the car park, leaving their bags in the Impala for later on. Apart from Sam’s bag containing his beloved laptop, which he took with him.  
Five minutes or so later, the two brothers stood in the reception of the motel, checking into their room under an obvious fake name. Sam’s rage with Dean had more or less diffused into vague irritation, but he still remained in a subconscious sulk, with his arms folded and an unsmiling face. As soon as they were settled into their room (which didn’t take long – they were used to having to leave at extremely short notice so they didn’t tend to empty their supplies), the younger brother began to dig deeper into the case with even more research, while Dean marvelled at the fact that the bed had the ‘Magic Fingers’ feature. He looked exactly like a kid on Christmas morning. Sam ignored him as he practically begged for quarters, so after a while he gave up and grabbed their bags from the car. When he returned, Dean began to get slightly impatient with the lack of action they were taking on the case, despite the fact that they had only arrived about fifteen minutes ago.   
“So, whatcha got, Sammy? Any progress?” Dean questioned his brother as he gazed longingly at the ‘Magic Finger’ sign next to the bed.   
“Well the victim has a widowed mother, so we could start with speaking to her. I’ve got the address here.” Sam stated, looking up at his brother from his computer screen.  
“Great. We should get changed and head off right away.”  
Sam and Dean confidently approached the house of the mother of the victim. It appeared as if the place was currently inhabited, therefore there was no need for them to pick the lock. The brothers shared a glance shortly before Dean knocked on the door, a jovial rhythm that inferred his fake optimistic attitude. A moment later, a puffy-eyed woman in her late forties answered the door, her voice still hoarse from crying, no doubt.   
“Yes?” She asked in a shaky tone, weary from all the visitors arriving at her home in the past couple of days.  
“Mrs Harris? Good afternoon, I’m Agent Johnson, this is Agent Evans. We’re with the FBI – we’d just like to ask you a few questions about your son’s death, if it’s not too much trouble.” Dean’s words rolled off his tongue; it was a well-rehearsed speech, after all.   
“Of course, do come in.” Mrs Harris opened the door and beckoned the brothers in, where they sat rather awkwardly on the edge of the sofa in the living room.   
“Erm, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve already spoken to some detectives…” Mrs Harris trailed off nervously, genuinely not meaning to offend the ‘FBI agents.’  
“Yes, we know, it’s just procedure for us to follow up.” Dean replied smoothly. After Mrs Harris’ obvious acceptance, Sam decided to delve straight into the procedural questions.  
“So, ma’am, you were the one who found your son?” The widow nodded silently. “Could you please run us through what happened?”  
“Of course, yes,” – she paused a moment to gather her thoughts – “Connor hadn’t called in days, and he never fails to call me. At first I thought he was just preoccupied with college or friends or a girlfriend, but as a mother, I have an instinct, you know? So I called him myself, but he didn’t answer. Naturally that worried me even more, so I decided to go round to his flat, but he didn’t appear when I rang the doorbell. I actually have my own key, so I let myself in, and that’s when I found him… You know the rest from there.”  
Sam’s facial expression was almost overwhelmingly sympathetic as he nodded and proceeded to ask questions. “Did you notice anything unusual at the scene? Any items out of place, or an object that shouldn’t be there? Anything at all?”  
“Um, no. Not that I know of.” Mrs Harris replied, slightly confused.  
“Okay, that’s fine. Just one last question, Mrs Harris. In the time you spent at your son’s apartment, were there ever any scratching sounds in the walls, kind of like rats, or any cold spots?” The younger Winchester finished up, trying to make the question sound as normal as possible (i.e. not very).  
“Actually, yes. Now you mention it, there were some scratching noises. I believe Connor called pest control, but they didn’t find anything. Sorry, how is that relevant?” The woman asked as Sam and Dean stood up, ready to leave, since they had enough information to go on. Dean spoke up in reply this time.  
“Every detail counts, ma’am. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if there’s any progress in the investigation.” Smiling reassuringly at Mrs Harris, the brothers left as the widow closed the door behind them. Once outside therefore out of earshot, Sam and Dean shared a knowing look.  
“I think you and I both know what we’re dealing with here.” Sammy commented, loosening his tie slightly as they began walking down the street.  
“Yup. Only think now is to find out who the spirit is so we can gank it and leave. Tell you what, you head back to the motel and I’ll check out the flat, just to be sure.” Striding purposefully down the road, Dean laid out instructions for him and his brother, willingly grabbing the reigns of responsibility. Although the older brother was eager to get the case over and done with before anyone else got hurt (as always), being a decent hunter, he insisted on getting it right and making sure the job was done properly. The reason Dean was so particular about that was probably because, despite his father’s reputation on being one of the greatest hunters of his time, John never actually seemed to finish a case properly, leaving it to his sons to finish it off for him, therefore Dean aspired to be better than that. He wished to be the kind of hunter that never failed to complete a job, the kind that always saved lives, more so by finishing cases. Knowing he would never be as great as his father (which is obviously entirely untrue) didn’t seem to faze him; he still constantly strove towards his impossible goal.   
“Yeah. See you in ten?” Sam interrupted his brother’s thoughts, staring at him as if to ask if he was okay, but without saying anything. He knew how irritated Dean got when people persisted in asking after his well-being. Nodding in agreement to their arrangements, Dean headed off in the direction of the latest victim’s apartment after grabbing his bag out of the Impala, which resided just around the corner from Mrs Harris’ home, while Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and drove off back to the motel.  
When Dean arrived at the flat, he silently and quickly picked the lock, making sure no-one was inside beforehand. Glancing round conspicuously, the older Winchester crept around the house, getting a feel for the place. It sent a shiver down his spine, though it wasn’t a cold spot; the spirit had cleared off for now. No, the eerie atmosphere of the apartment that caused Dean’s throat to go dry and his stomach clench with uneasiness was the sense of death that hung over the place like a dark cloud. However, it could also be an aftertaste, if you like, of the spirit, of course. Shuddering, the hunter headed to the guy’s bedroom, where he had been found dead.   
Once Dean was perched on his tiptoes just around the corner from the room, squashed up against the wall in anticipation, he pulled out and loaded his shotgun full of rock salt (as per usual), his other hand burdened with the infamous EMF meter, which was showing no sign of spirit activity; for now, at least. Shuffling cautiously around the corner, Dean abruptly swivelled around into the room, aiming the gun at the four corners, but nothing leapt out at him. Naturally, this was a relief to the hunter, however sometimes it can be more unnerving when the monster cannot be seen.   
The room itself was fairly ordinary aside from a translucent layer of dust that coated everything, evidently present due to the two-day duration of non-cleaning and general abandonment of the flat, except for when the cops and forensic team were swarming about it. The only item that looked out of place was the length of rope lying neglected in the direct centre of the floor, and even that appeared as if it had made its home there, as if it almost belonged there. Strolling over to it and turning his gaze upwards, Dean noticed a ceiling fan that must have been the item from which Connor Harris hanged himself. Well, not him – the spirit, obviously. But Dean wasn’t in the mood for being pedantic. As the hunter remained still for a moment, imagining the tremendous pain the victim’s mother must have felt on discovering him that way, a shrill squealing noise emanated from his left hand. When he looked down, Dean perceived the EMF red-lining, as he liked to call it. After a thought came to mind, he moved the helpful device closer to the rope, and, as expected, it shrieked ever louder and higher, as if protesting and wishing to be separated from such a repulsive object.   
“Definitely some major Sixth Sense stuff going on here.” The hunter muttered to himself under his breath. A moment later, he was thrown off his feet and slammed violently against a wall, picture frames falling and shattering under his weight. Groaning in annoyance, Dean realised he had dropped his rock salt shotgun, yet the EMF meter held on, which was where the irony lay since it wouldn’t do much to help. A burst of static erupted from the other end of the room as a spirit materialised. It was in the form of a young boy who was likely still in middle school (well, not anymore, clearly), and who looked extremely ticked off, wearing a torn-up uniform and his eyes glaring daggers at Dean. However, a second later, the ghost gazed at the hunter almost apologetically before disappearing. Dean crashed undignified onto the floor and landed in a rather unceremonious heap. Sighing, he pulled himself up, grabbed his gun and EMF, and legged it out of the flat before the spirit could return.   
“So, what you’re saying is that the ghost just… let you go?” Back in the motel room, Sam was interrogating his brother on the events in which he had just unwillingly participated. The younger Winchester was fascinated – it never failed to intrigue him when a spirit did something other than their usual M.O., aka. killing anything in its path. He refused to let this particular piece of information go, and he had a hunch it linking into his perennial further research.  
“That’s right, Sammy. Must have had the hots for me or something.” Dean smiled at his lame joke as Sam pulled his omnipresent disapproving face at him, therefore the older brother coughed to cover his laughter and carried on describing his account, somewhat more seriously than previously. “He began attacking me as they normally do and then stared at me, like he was saying sorry before vanishing.”  
“Hmmm… This may sound strange, but it kinda makes sense. I mean, I was researching the other victims and, get this; they all attended the same middle school. In the same year group. In fact, they shared most of the same classes.”  
“Whoa, whoa, hang on. Can you zoom in on the badge a sec?” Dean leaned over his brother as he studied the photos of the students intently. “’Jefferson Middle School’… I recognise that badge – the spirit was wearing a school uniform from there.”  
“You sure?” Sam asked his brother warily after he stared at him curiously for a minute or so while Dean scrutinized the laptop screen.   
“Pretty sure. He looked as if he were in high school too.” Leaning away from the computer, Dean was satisfied with their discovery. The younger brother switched tabs to the school records, where he had found a register of the year group and classes of the victims. After thinking for a second, he came to a conclusion. “So they must have been in the same grade as the spirit… Do you recognise any of these pupils?” Sam inquired as he scrolled down the list gradually. A moment later, Dean’s face lit up with recognition.   
“Him!” He exclaimed, pointing way too excitedly at the screen at a depressed-looking boy with dark hair and pale skin, exactly the same as the spirit who had glued him to the wall before letting him go free. “It was definitely him.”  
“Okay, let’s see…” Sam clicked open some more tabs as he furthered his research on the boy. “His name is Joseph Wade – or was. He died in 10th grade. Suicide. He hanged himself in his parent’s apartment… Mostly people thought it was because his grades were slipping, but according to other sources, he was bullied horribly throughout his time at school…”  
“…which would explain his M.O.” Dean completed his brother’s sentence, crashing out on his uncomfortable motel bed. “The kid committed suicide, that’s vengeful spirit material right there. So he’s gonna take it out on the douchebags that made his life a misery in the same way that he died.” Sam nodded in agreement, delving ever deeper, using an article from a couple of months before Joseph’s death surfaced. “Huh.” Sam grunted. His brother glanced over, curious. “Hey Dean, check this out: just before Joseph died, there was a final showdown of sorts between him and the bullies – it sounds pretty brutal. They beat him up badly, had him in hospital for days. I was just going through the names of those involved. Any of these sound familiar to you? Er… let’s see, we’ve got Arnold Neil, Cindy Simons, Lillian Peterson, Connor Harris-”  
“It’s the names of the victims.” Realising immediately, Dean wanted to know more. “Are there any more bullies Joseph could be targeting soon?”   
“There are two more names on the list: Natalie Walters and Davie Arthur, but Natalie moved to Minnesota five years ago, so it’s unlikely the spirit will follow her, at least not yet.”  
“So Dark-Eyed Jo is gonna go after Davie.” Dean confirmed, leaping off the bed, ready for action. “Right, I’ll look after douche-pants while you go burn the bones. Does it say where he’s buried?”  
“He wasn’t. Says here he was cremated.” Sam stated in a monotonous tone, as they usually did when they found out the job was going to be more complicated than initially thought.  
“We’ll just have to find some remains, then. I’ll stick with my job guarding Davie, you can take a trip to Joseph’s flat where he died, see if you can find anything. Maybe I’ll teach the douche a lesson or two about treating people with respect. Man, kids can be cruel.”  
On arriving at Davie’s house, Dean banged his fists on the door violently. He was no longer clad in his cheap fake FBI agent suit; instead he was wearing his generic hunting clothes – a plain short-sleeved black t-shirt covered by a khaki long-sleeved collared shirt, finally topped with a blue leather jacket, and casual jeans. The golden mask amulet that Sammy had given him as a Christmas present back when they were kids remained, ever-present, around his neck, the low, orange-red light of early evening reflecting off its surface, emitting a soft yellow glow. Almost smashing the door down, Dean persisted to thump the delicate wood. In fact, he was on the verge of giving the door a firm kick in order to fully break it off its hinges, when Davie finally answered.   
“Dude! What the hell!” He yelled, naturally furious at the disruptive stranger at his door.  
“Shut up and do as I say.” Dean replied, entirely unsympathetic towards the guy. He was that annoyed at him that he point-blank refused to go through the whole I’m-really-sorry-but-you’re-in-trouble-and-I’m-here-to-help-you-I-promise-everything-will-be-okay scenario (plus that was more Sam’s thing anyway), so he went with the definitely less appealing I’m-a-psychotic-psychopath-that-has-just-barged-into-your-house-and-am-just-about-to-battle-some-kind-of-ghost/demon-and-you-won’t-have-a-clue-what’s-going-on-and-will-probably-require-intense-therapy-for-many-years-afterwards thing. Completely ignoring the guy’s protestations, Dean proceeded to make a ring of salt around Davie, load his shotgun and toss him an iron pole in defence.   
“Look, you know back in 10th grade when you were a complete and utter douche and made poor Joseph Wade kill himself? Yeah, it’s coming back to bite you on the behind and I’m the stupid S.O.B. that has to save your butt.” Dean attempted (not very convincingly) to shut the guy up with an explanation.  
Davie was still complaining and threatening to call the cops, uttering that Dean was crazy ‘as in, mental ward insane’ when Joseph appeared. He appeared the exact same as he had back in Connor’s apartment: the same torn uniform, dark, troubled eyes and… What was that? For the first time, Dean noticed a red and purple ring around the spirit’s neck; he figured it must have been the scar from his death. The hunter couldn’t get into the salt circle in time – he was thrown across the room once again, this time crashing into the TV.  
“You…shouldn’t be here…” Joseph whispered threateningly, advancing on Dean. “I… must finish this…” The older Winchester brother assumed the ghost was referencing his revenge-spree on the bullies.   
“Like hell you are.” Ever the witty, confident hunter, Dean dragged himself up off the ground, but this time he’d truly infuriated the spirit. Reaching a pale grey hand out dramatically, Joseph glared intensely at Dean as he hauled him up the wall using his telekinetic ghostly powers, slowly and deliberately. His feet struggled to move as they lifted off the ground, but the ghost had him pinned to the wall so forcefully he couldn’t move a muscle. The hunter shouted desperately at Davie, reluctantly acknowledging the priority.  
“DAVIE! RUN! GET OUT OF HERE NOW!” The ex-bully complied, too shocked to speak, not hesitating to sprint out of the house and leaving the door wide open in haste.   
Unable to leave or even gain mobility, Dean could only watch as Joseph produced a length of rope –the same as the one in Connor’s flat – which he wound around the hunter’s neck and tied the other end to the ceiling fan. As the noose tightened, Dean’s oxygen supply was cut off entirely. Gasping for breath that simply wasn’t there, the older Winchester began to accept his fate; he was going to die, right then, at the hands of a mere ghost.  
Meanwhile, Sammy rummaged through every item in Joseph Wade’s old apartment in utter desperation, but couldn’t find any remains or items that seemed likely to get rid of the spirit if he burned them. The entire house was trashed, with boxes, tables, chairs, ornaments, etc. strewn haphazardly anywhere and everywhere. But Sam refused to give up. He was well aware that his big brother could be in terrible danger, and knew he was going to do everything in his power to save him. Even if that meant burning the whole block of flats down.   
With Joseph showing no signs of letting up, Dean eventually fell unconscious from lack of oxygen after black spots appeared at the edges of his peripheral vision. He was completely helpless, and he knew it, even before he closed his eyes and drifted off into oblivion. Just when he thought it was all over, he dropped to the floor. Joseph’s grip had been released, so Dean regained control of his limbs and the rope loosened from his neck. Uncomprehending of what had just happened that could possibly force the ghost to let go, he took a deep and gasping breath and his eyes flew open. What he saw next was even less understandable than his near-death experience: a familiar man stood face-to-face with Joseph. He also appeared to be a spirit, even thought that was impossible. After a moment of silence, where time seemed to slow down, the other ghost charged straight into Joseph, and they both vaporised in a flash of bright white light. Dean struggled to sit up and gain control of his vocal chords, but when he did, he uttered a single word in a hoarse whisper.  
“Dad?”  
***  
Back in Joseph Wade’s apartment, Sam had taken a break from trashing the flat. He was completely prepared to wreck the entire block, however soon came to the realisation that such a reckless decision wasn’t going to help his brother in any way, shape or form; it would likely hinder him instead, since it would take far too much time, in which Dean could be in danger. Sammy knew their job as hunters often left them (and others) in situations of life or death, therefore acting impulsively simply because his emotions caused his judgement to fly out of the window was probably the worst possible thing to do. They knew that from experience. As opposed to his previous ludicrous plan, the younger Winchester managed to clear his panicked mind for long enough to think rationally. After taking a few deep breaths in order to calm down, Sam decided the best thing to do was to head over to Davie’s place and provide back-up for Dean – he guessed his brother was likely getting his butt kicked big time by now so would require his aid. Once that significantly more coherent plan was established, the younger brother practically flew down the four flights of steps leading down from Joseph’s flat and sprinted down the street. Fortunately, Davie’s house was only a few blocks away, so he got there in no time. The only obstacle was a kid that Sam assumed to be the douchebag bully himself, who crashed right into him around the corner from his house, looking terrified out of his skin and mumbling that he was crazy. The tall man took this information as a bad thing – a very bad thing: for one, Dean could usually keep the next victim of the spirit in a salt circle inside the house; it never got bad enough that the victim had to leave the building. Secondly, spirits almost always lock the windows and doors to prevent people from leaving to make it easier to kill them, so Sam deduced that Joseph must be seriously preoccupied with injuring Dean if he hadn’t spared a nanosecond to do so.   
Starting to get more than a little concerned about his brother’s life, Sam quickened his pace to a full-fledged race against the clock. When he reached the wide-open front door of Davie’s home a second later, the younger Winchester leapt through it, his voluminous locks of hair swishing from side to side as he desperately scanned the rooms for Dean. He spotted him in an instant, slumped in a worrying heap against the far wall of the living room, his half-open eyes rolling around in his skull.   
“Dean? DEAN!” Sammy yelled, dashing over to his delirious brother, softly slapping his face to bring him back to reality. “Dean, are you okay? Please be okay…” The baby brother was whispering into Dean’s hair now as tears welled up in his eyes, one of them unintentionally escaping. Its salty wetness ran free yet cautiously down his skin and into his brother’s messed-up hair, refusing to be absorbed therefore perching there in a stubborn droplet. Sam despised seeing his brother like that.  
“I’m… I’m okay, Sammy…” Dean replied in a husky voice after an eternity, reaching up a weakened hand in which to cradle Sam’s face. Not wanting to let his big brother see him cry (for he knew he would tease him about it unrelentingly for as long as he lived), Sammy hastily wiped away the track of the solitary tear and stood up, offering a hand to Dean. After a moment of hesitation, while he mustered up a burst of strength, the older Winchester grabbed Sam’s outstretched hand for dear life, allowing himself to be lifted up. They stumbled out of the house with their arms around each other’s shoulders, Sam carrying most of Dean’s weight as well as his own.  
“So, uh… How did you do it? How on Earth did you get rid of that ghost?” Sam questioned his brother, genuinely completely confused. “I mean, I couldn’t find any remains in Joseph’s apartment, and spirits generally don’t just leave without their remains being burned. What happened?”  
At that point, Dean knew he was absolutely not going to mention their dad’s appearance – after all, he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure himself that he did see John. It could have simply been his mind playing tricks on him, creating illusions and imaginary explanations when deprived of oxygen. It wasn’t uncommon. Plus, Sam (being the worry-pot and general over-thinker he was) would definitely either make fun of him or go on some senseless quest to pursue the ghost of their dad; knowing Sam as well as he did, Dean figured the latter was more likely for him. And if that was to happen, it would be a repeat of when John was alive, with the two brothers sacrificing everything to find someone who didn’t want to be found, and then being disappointed when they did all over again. Instead, the older Winchester made up some sloppy excuse, well aware that Sam was loyal enough not to question it. Not yet, anyway.  
“Ah, I don’t know, Sammy… One minute, I thought I was toast. I managed to distract him for a second with a bit of friendly salt, then I realised he could be similar to that ‘buruburu’ thing – you know, when you and Bobby defeated that one back in Colorado by scaring it to death? So I grabbed the rope that the douche was trying to hang me with and caught it by surprise. I hanged the sucker myself, and it vaporised.” Dean knew it was a pathetic story, but it was all he could come up with at the time. Sam looked slightly suspicious, but stayed silent and accepted his brother’s account of the hunt. As long as the spirit was gone, that’s all that mattered to them both.   
“Wow. Well, uh… you look pretty bad, Dean. We should get cleaned up.” Changing the subject, Sam focused on tending to his clearly beaten-up brother, still carrying him as they staggered back to the motel and got washed and changed, ready to hit the road yet again once Dean had recovered as much as he could.   
The next morning dawned, and Dean was driving the Impala once again, with Sammy riding shotgun. They were both silent, Sam just sleepy but the older brother utterly wrapped up in his thoughts. The scene kept replaying in his head, over and over again; the spirit’s furious yet triumphant face as it realised it was actually going to defeated the famous Dean Winchester, the equally angry expression on the other spirit’s face as he destroyed Joseph for harming his son. Yet Dean still had immense doubt as to whether the ghost was in fact his dad – it was impossible. When the young hunter had put a bullet through Azazel’s heart, John Winchester had laid a hand on his son’s shoulders, smiled exhaustedly yet victoriously at them and disappeared. He had finally let go once revenge had been sought upon the monster that had killed his wife around twenty four years previously. So how could he possibly be back?  
“Dean.” Sam piped up from the seat next to his brother, cutting through his indecipherable thoughts. Dean had thought he had fallen asleep again, but evidently he was thinking as intensely and profoundly as him, perhaps about different issues, but in deep thought all the same. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, that ghost had you cornered for ages. You nearly died.”  
“Well it wouldn’t be the first time.” The older Winchester remained obstinate, maintaining a jokey attitude and refusing to elaborate on the matter. So, nothing different there, then.   
“Look, man; when are you going to tell me what actually happened in there?” Sam’s tone changed from concerned to irritated in an instant as he glared at his older brother, expecting a truthful answer for once. “I looked it up. Buruburus that don’t spread a ghost sickness don’t exist, Dean. So Joseph must have been an ordinary spirit. In that case, there’s no way you could have escaped him if I didn’t burn the remains and you were trapped and being killed by him. Not unless something intervened.”  
“You can’t just leave it, can you, Sammy? You always have to overthink and worry about stupid things. Can’t you just trust me for once?” Dean immediately regretted snapping at his little brother; Sam was only asking. He knew from experience how annoying it can be when you know someone is hiding something from you, and won’t let you in on it. But he couldn’t let it go. “I told you what happened already – I got rid of the spirit, and I’m fine. What more do you want?”  
“Trust you? How am I supposed to trust you when you’re clearly hiding something? And don’t try denying it, Dean. I know you, and I know when you’re lying.” Silence smothered the car and the two brothers for a few minutes as Dean bit his tongue, not wanting to snap at Sam again, as he knew that would only make matters worse, and Sam himself keeping quiet in anticipation of a response from his brother. Just when the tense atmosphere was about to become unbearable, Dean sighed and spoke.  
“Sam, I’m sorry if you think I’m not telling the truth, but I need you to trust me on this one. As you said, I almost died… again… and I’m struggling to get over it this time. And with the whole Lilith thing and the seals and Cas and Ruby and my nightmares… Man, we have to stop the freaking Apocalypse and it’s just getting on top of me, okay? So I’m sorry if I’m a little touchy, but all I want right now is a break from all the chaos. All I want is to have some normal hunts, and forget everything else on my mind. Maybe save a few lives while we’re at it. Please just… humour me, Sam.” Following the long speech that he’d wanted to get off his chest for a while now, Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on driving. Sam stared strangely at his big brother for a long second, and then sighed, nodding his head.  
“Yeah… yeah, of course. I’m… sorry too, Dean. I had no idea how stressed you were. Look, why don’t we check in at Bobby’s – he always has a case for us, plus we haven’t seen him in a few weeks. You know him; he’ll be worrying about us.” The younger Winchester didn’t have a clue how grateful Dean was for lifting the weight off of him. Then again, he was also still completely oblivious as to the truth about what truly happened back in Davie’s flat on that hunt; he didn’t know who had appeared and saved his son’s life yet again. But Sam was still suspicious. And once Sam Winchester caught wind of something odd going on, he didn’t give up until he found out what it was.  
In the late afternoon, Dean pulled the Impala over in the parking lot of a diner. It was another few hours before they would arrive at Bobby’s scrapyard, and the older brother was starving – they’d only eaten a few cold fries in twelve hours. As Dean practically jumped out of the car, immensely excited at the prospect of a wholesome meal (well, what he considered to be one), Sam held back.  
“Um, Dean?” The younger brother called over to his older brother from the other side of the Impala. He had to shout louder than usual, since Dean was already halfway across the parking lot. “I’ll just be a minute – I’m calling Bobby to let him know when we’ll be there.” Which wasn’t a lie; he was calling Bobby, just for something different.   
“Yeah, sure!” Grinning at his little brother, Dean dashed across the remainder of the space between him and the diner, unable to resist the heavenly scent of burgers and fast food drifting over to his easily-pleased nostrils. Shaking his head yet a hint of an amused smile playing upon his lips, Sam turned around with his back to the diner, leaned against his side of the car and pulled out his phone. Bobby picked up after two rings.  
“Sam. Sure is good to hear from ya, boy.” A low, almost growling voice belonging to their adopted father comforted Sam instantaneously. It sounded like home.  
“Yeah, sorry we haven’t been in touch for a while. We’ve been kinda busy with hunting – demonic and ghost activity seems to have doubled.” The younger Winchester stated as an introduction.  
“Don’t worry your delicate head about it. Now, let’s skip the formalities, shall we? You never call if there’s nothing wrong. Is it Dean? Where is he?” It never ceased to amaze Sam how well he could read them both. He always, without fail, could tell if there was something wrong.  
“Right now? Stuffing his face in a diner. But he seems… different. He went on this whole speech about how everything’s getting on top of him and how he just wants to hunt.” Sam sighed. Bobby waited patiently for him to go on. “It’s ever since we were hunting a spirit in Indiana last night. I couldn’t find its remains, so I thought it would have killed Dean for sure, but he claimed he got rid of it somehow. I know he’s lying, Bobby. I know something else happened in that house, something that seriously spooked him. But he won’t tell me and I need your help. Please, Bobby.” Sam knew he was starting to sound desperate, but he also knew Bobby wouldn’t mind. He was always willing to help.  
“Oh, I’ll get it out of him somehow, don’t you worry. Just get here as soon as you can, alright?” Bobby remained calm while instructing Sam.  
“Of course, we’re only a few hours away. Listen, I’ve gotta go. Dean will be wondering what I’m doing. See you soon, Bobby. And… thanks.” Hanging up, the younger brother headed back into the diner after Dean.  
As soon as the Winchesters arrived at Singer Salvage Yard, Bobby hustled them indoors, enveloping them both in bear-hugs first of all, but only briefly. None of the men were soft-hearted, and although they all loved and cared for each other dearly, they rarely showed it due to their dreadfully stubborn natures. Strolling into the main room, the brothers noticed it was exactly the same as the old hunter always kept it: lore and research books scattered across the rickety wooden desk, an omnipresent half-empty bottle of whiskey (or ‘hunter’s helper’, as Dean and Bobby both liked to call it) standing proudly on top of a stack of papers, acting as a temporary paperweight, the dusty and worn-down sofa settled comfortably in the corner, an elaborate devil’s trap carefully painted on the ceiling, directly above Dean’s head as he entered the room; despite the place’s flaws and blemishes, they all knew they wouldn’t have it any other way. It was home.   
The pointed look of concern written blatantly across Sam’s face, however unintentionally, drove Bobby to get down to business right away. When he spoke, all three relatives were carried out of the sense of nostalgia they all shared. The old four walls contained many memories for them – good and bad – from the past few years, and even more (including unknown secrets) for Bobby from previously in his life, before Sam and Dean had staggered back into his life while on the search for their daddy back in ’06. Just thinking about that day snapped Bobby back to reality as he realised that when they walked through that door, that was the moment he had decided to look out for them, and treat them as his own sons if John got lost or died, or simply failed to guard them as he should. And things have never changed.   
“So I’m just gonna forget the small talk, if that’s alright with you two.” Bobby started, well aware that the boys had never been ones for small talk anyway. However, the brothers both seemed slightly surprised at their adoptive dad’s harsh tone as he turned to address Dean. “Are you gonna tell us what happened on that hunt in Indiana or do we have to do this the hard way?” Of course, by ‘the hard way’, Bobby only meant his and Sam’s conjoined way of guilt-tripping Dean into talking; he would never even think of considering hurting the kid.   
Looking severely annoyed, the older Winchester diverted his gaze to Sam, raising his eyebrows in irritation, but Sam saw the hint of betrayal and hurt revealed in his eyes. “You told Bobby about that?”  
“Look, Dean, I was worried. Hell, I still am! And I could tell you weren’t gonna say anything to me about what happen-”   
“Forget about it.” Dean interrupted sharply, silencing his younger brother and regretting his attitude as he caught a glance of his puppy-dog eyes just before his eyes flickered back to Bobby. He sighed, realising they were just going to end up going round in circles if he lied again, and being reluctant to worry Sam even further, therefore deciding to tell the truth. “Okay, okay. But it’s gonna sound ridiculous, I’m telling you…”  
“Half of our damn lives are full of ridiculous things, boy.” Bobby retorted in such a tone that ensured he made his point, but not so forcefully that it would push Dean away and prevent him from answering. “Now, spill.”  
“Thing is… I could have sworn I saw Dad in there.” The response was instantaneous. Bobby’s eyes simply widened in shock and with a surprising hint of horror at the concept of John Winchester returning from the dead, while Sam leapt up and spluttered out words of disbelief.  
“What?! Dad? Are you sure? I mean, how could he be…?” The younger brother stumbled over his words, eager to hear the context of the piece of information.  
Taking a breath and preparing to be ridiculed (although deep down he knew Bobby and Sam would never do that), Dean recounted his experience, starting from the very beginning of the case, for Bobby’s sake. When he got up to the part that Sam hadn’t heard a true account of, he could see his brother visibly lean closer so as not to miss any detail, almost as if he would miss something if he was too far away. But Dean didn’t skip out anything. Plus, it actually felt far better to get it out in the open. “…and then, just when I thought I was dead for sure, another ghost appeared and charged into Joseph, like, full-on Wall Street Bull style. Well, if the Wall Street Bull was real and not just a statue… Anyway, I thought the other spirit was Dad. He looked super angry at Joseph and after they collided, they both just… disappeared. Poof.” Although Dean was acting nonchalant about the whole affair, Sam and Bobby could see past his façade, however they refused to acknowledge it, knowing it was how the older Winchester dealt with things.   
“Dean! You didn’t think to mention this before?” A hurt look spread across Sammy’s face as he stared entirely uncomprehendingly at his brother. “Seriously, why would you lie about this?!”  
“I’m sorry, Sam. But I was pretty freaked out myself after seeing my dead dad save me from being hanged by a ghost.” The sarcastic tone with which Dean replied made it sound like he was reciting a storyline from an episode of ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show.’ “And I still don’t know if it was actually Dad; my brain was shutting down at the time, it could have just been a hallucination. I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Sammy.”   
“Well aren’t you just the sweetest brother.” Bobby chipped in, his saturated sardonic voice rivalling that of a demon’s. “When you see your dead dad, you don’t bottle it up – you tell your brother, ya idjit! Even if you’re not sure about it. Yeah, sure I understand if you’re not into the whole sharing and caring business, but something this big – you have to let us know, Dean. That way, we can help you. But if you don’t wanna be helped, then that’s your own damn funeral, boy.”  
After Bobby’s outburst, the brothers stayed silent for a moment. Sam looked down at the floor awkwardly while Dean averted his eyes, reduced to downright shame. Bobby seemed to have that effect on people. Eventually, after an eternity, Dean coughed and spoke up.  
“So, uh, what are we gonna do?” He tentatively asked no-one in particular.  
“Has he appeared to you since then?” Sam responded with another question, ever inquisitive.  
“Yeah, like he hasn’t kept enough from us already.” Bobby mumbled under his breath, loud enough to let himself be heard.  
Ignoring the grumpy old hunter, Dean answered his brother’s question seriously. “No. Just that one time with the spirit, so far.”  
“Well, I suggest we carry on as normal with our busy lives, and you come back and tell me if he appears again, alright?” Bobby looked sternly at Sam and Dean respectively, yet his tone softened slightly as he realised he’d been a bit hard on Dean. The brothers nodded profusely in agreement, not wanting to displease their adoptive father again so soon. “Here, I found a case for you two to be getting on with while you were on your way over here. Hopefully that’ll get you to shut your pie hole, quit belly-aching and do your job for once.”  
***  
The two brothers made the extremely wise decision of obeying Bobby. The case they took turned out to be another one of Lilith’s sixty-six seals, but unfortunately they couldn’t prevent the seal from being broken in time. Castiel, or any other angels, for that matter, hadn’t given them the honour of having turned up (again), so Dean was naturally irritated at him. The damn angel only seemed to appear when it suited him best, not to help the humans under his so-called ‘protection.’ As a result, the Winchesters came no closer to stopping the Apocalypse; in fact, the only progress they were making was maybe saving some lives now and again and actually telling each other more of the truth for a change, which, to be honest, was probably more Bobby’s doing rather than the brothers’ own intent. However, Dean felt awful about the fact that every time Sam looked at him, he noticed more than a hint of borderline disgust and also pity ever since he confessed about the whole ‘I-tortured-souls-and-I-liked-it’ thing from back in Hell. And on the other hand, Sam himself still hadn’t plucked up the courage to admit to his big brother about his increased ingestion of demon blood and secret meetings with Ruby. Dean did suspect something was up though, especially after Pamela’s death, and what he did to Alastair was downright disturbing. Even Castiel, who barely flinched at anything, had looked terrified. The older brother didn’t wish to push Sammy away from him though, particular at a time like the build-up to the end of the world.  
Sam and Dean both checked in with Bobby more often as the Apocalypse drew ever closer, reluctant to lose touch, since family was obviously the most important thing to stay close to in such dark times. The old hunter remained a steadfast rock in the ever-changing world in which they lived, alerting them to strange homicides or cases that seemed out of the ordinary, even for them, and continuously scouring TV channels, radio stations, and the web for warning signs for potential broken seals. Not that it would do much good, but it was comforting to keep tabs on things.  
As for John, there had been absolutely no sign of him since Indiana: no visible appearances, EMF or even cold spots, therefore Dean had almost completely forgotten about it – Sam definitely had. But the memory of the older Winchester’s experience on that hunt was constantly niggling at the back of his mind, no matter how subconsciously. And so it remained; at least, until one normal day in March…  
The Winchester boys were hunting a vamp in Michigan. It was just any old hunt, far away from any douche-y demons or interfering angels – Sam hadn’t even met up with Ruby in the few days they’d been on the job. Dean was kind of lazing about in their motel room. He was supposed to be researching lore on how to track a vampire easily, so they could get the job done quicker, but he was bored. Plus, research was more Sam’s sort of thing, however he was currently out interviewing the best friend of the latest victim. As the older brother leaned back, fully laying down on the hideously patterned quilt covers of his bed and gently shut his eyes, he drifted off to sleep far quicker than he had in a long time, which was probably due to the fact that he hadn’t been sleeping at all recently. It wasn’t long before his nightmares of Hell returned to plague him.  
As the malevolent demon dragged the serrated blade out of his tortured body slowly and deliberately, finishing up his carving for the day, Hell’s most infamous torturer stepped up. He clutched the wounded boy’s face with both gnarled hands, thick and angst-filled blood dripping into them as the soul struggled ineffectively in his grasp, moaning in pain and excessive discomfort. An almost seductively evil smile spread across the demon’s face. He knew he had the Righteous Man right where he wanted him.  
“So, Dean… Ready to pick up a blade yet?” Alastair inquired in a malicious tone, half of him knowing the kid would stubbornly refuse; the other half eager to hear if he would actually give in. Despite Dean’s unbelievable tendency to hold onto his last scrap of dignity, the boy had withstood unimaginable and excruciating pain for thirty long years in Hell now, and he was absolutely exhausted.  
“If… I agree to it…” He began, his voice ultimately desperate, ignoring the look of content disbelief lighting up Alastair’s demonic face. “Will you stop? Will you definitely call your demons off?”  
“Oh, Dean Winchester… I can’t believe you’d doubt me… I’m a man of my word. Of course, the torture would stop instantly. All you have to do is say one little ‘yes’…” The grand torturer lingered on the last word, clearly enjoying the finality of the Winchester’s doomed decision.   
“Then… yes.” But little did he know that he had just committed to something that would not just change his life, but the entire world forever. Little did he know he had just broken the first seal…  
Back in the motel, Dean sat up abruptly, his eyes wide open with intense fear and gasping for breath. Although it evidently wasn’t the first time he had experienced such horror-filled memories in the form of unconscious visions, the terror still punched him in the stomach as strong as the first time. As he took time to recover, he heard a faint humming/squealing coming from his holdall on top of the table in the corner of the room. Turning his head towards the source of the sound, Dean was about to stand up and advance cautiously towards it when he realised he’d been clenching the edge of the bed extraordinarily tightly during and after his nightmare. He let go, unfurling his fists gradually as he got up, creeping over to the table and grabbing a gun for safety on the way there. Just as he reached the sound (which was increasing in volume and pitch exponentially), he realised it was only the EMF meter red-lining. This piece of information concerned the older Winchester greatly, despite the fact that he was vaguely glad that a vamp wasn’t after him. No, instead, it was something (or someone) so much more surprising.  
“Hello, son.” John Winchester, or the spirit of, greeted Dean, who was still in the complete speechless kind of extended shock. He continued, smiling at his boy. “It’s good to see you again.”  
“Dad? Is it really you?” Dean asked tentatively, bewilderment causing his words to stick uncomfortably in his throat.  
“It’s me, Dean.” John replied, still smiling at his son in a distant and almost patronising manner. He didn’t, however, specify that he wasn’t actually, you know, ‘alive’ and was, in fact, a spirit, as he was reluctant to insult Dean’s intelligence, being well aware the older Winchester brother already knew that. As for Dean himself, he simply stood silently in awe, his mouth hanging open slightly as he stared at his dead father. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still dreaming; that his horrific recurring nightmare of Hell and Alastair had somehow faded away into this pleasant dream and that Hell’s finest torturer would reappear any second and he would wake up again with Sam researching the case and it would all be over and he would feel like an idiot for ever thinking it was real. He prayed wordlessly to Castiel that it was real, even though he was talking to a ghost that could potentially turn into a vengeful spirit and could hurt him, but he quickly pushed away that thought. There were alarm bells ringing violently at the back of Dean’s mind, warning him urgently that this was wrong – he was a hunter faced with a spirit, a monster back from the dead. Surely, his first reaction should be based on his natural instinct to kill it as fast as possible? No, the loyal son told himself. He’s still my dad, dead or not. There’s no way I’m getting rid of him.   
Before Dean could say another word, his dad spoke.  
“How are you doing, son? You’ve been looking out for Sammy, I hope.” The spirit’s features hardened as he developed a stern look on his face. Dean replied accordingly, having no desire to displease his father on their first official reunion.  
“We’re… good. Thanks. Sam’s fine, I never stop watching over him, I promise.”  
“That’s great.”  
During the moment of silence between father and son, Dean fought the urge to embrace his dad (knowing he would probably fall straight through him), facing the many fundamental questions racing through his head so fast that they bashed against his cranium forcefully, as if trying to escape. The questions were multichotomous, categorised in entirely opposing classifications: emotional, direct, logical, inquisitive, etc. They battled for dominance, each one longing to be the ultimate first inquiry. However, only once could come out on top. And that it did.  
“How-how are you… here?” There were so many alternate word and phrase choices that flitted across Dean’s tongue in his moment of hesitation. Alive. A ghost. In his room. Currently in existence. But ‘here’ seemed the most appropriate of them all. It inferred practically all of the other choices anyway, therefore there was no need for the youngest Winchester in the room to elaborate. That one vague and extremely short word said it all. There was also an extraordinary amount of ways in which his father could answer, but he chose the most logical one.  
“As you know, after I had grabbed the demon out of Azazel’s vessel, buying you a minute to gain the upper hand and put that bullet through his heart, I appeared to you for a moment and then vanished. I’m guessing you and Sam assumed I’d just… let go, since your mother had finally been avenged. Well, I couldn’t.” Sighing in discomfort and relived despair, John disappeared in a burst of static to return a second later. Talking for so long was clearly draining his energy. He carried on, regardless. “I knew it would be best for me, but I just couldn’t. I needed to look out for my boys, and to make sure you were looking after Sammy. Wrestling Azazel hit me hard and took a great deal of energy out of me. It took all of my will-power just to stay with you for those moments afterwards. That’s why I couldn’t speak to you, only smile to let you know how proud I was. Following that, I couldn’t physically hold on anymore, so I left. But I didn’t leave forever; I didn’t move on, Dean.”  
“Then… How are you back? After losing your energy? Does it recharge, or something?” Despite the urge to bite his tongue and just tell his dad how much he missed him and loved him, Dean couldn’t control the flow of logical questions he was puking up. However, John didn’t seem to mind. Answering such questions was what kept him from becoming overly emotional.  
“I guess you could say that. It took a long while to… ‘recharge’… but, eventually, I found myself able to make myself visible to people again, talk to them and move objects – the general activity of spirits. Plus my energy was drained again after the episode in Indiana…” Apart from the fact that what John was telling him was unfortunate, Dean couldn’t help but let relief wash over him at discovering that he wasn’t insane; his dad had saved him from Joseph. His father carried on speaking, ignorant of his son’s thoughts. “Speaking of which, what date is it? August, 2007? Later? October, maybe?” John was genuinely confused; Dean guessed there wasn’t much sense of time passing in the veil.   
“Try March 22nd, 2009.” His son’s response had an instant effect on the ghost, whose expression changed rapidly from confusion, to deeper misunderstanding, to surprising anger.   
“What? But the crossroads demon can’t have given you that long… A couple months, maximum. Then you’ve spent another month or so back on Earth since you returned from Hell, right?” Now it was Dean’s turn to be perplexed.  
“Wait, you knew about that? My trip downstairs, then coming back?”  
“Sure I did. They wouldn’t shut up about it in the veil. And everywhere else, I imagine. Yes, I know about the deal you made to save your brother. And I know about the angel Castiel pulling you out of Hell. But that’s about it. We have a lot of catching up to do, Dean…”  
“Of course, yeah.” The older Winchester brother replied hastily, however he had another inquiry first. “What about Sam?”  
“What about him?” Answering with another question made the spirit seem evasive, which wasn’t unusual for John. But Dean was persistent. He had grown impatient in the time his dad had been gone.  
“We can catch up together. Give me one minute – I’ll call him and he’ll come right away. Then we can trade stories about the past couple years.” At that point, his father became fidgety, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and a hint of static accumulating around the edge of his shape.   
“Wait.” John commanded, his tone sounding exactly like he did in life when he was about to start dishing out orders for his sons, Dean in particular. His eldest son reacted correspondingly; he straightened up, all hints of remaining emotion slipping away from his face as he faced his father square-on. Seeing the change in his son’s posture, John continued. “Don’t call him. Not yet.” Little did he know that Dean had grown a more independent mind, especially since Hell. He refused to take orders anymore without understanding what for.  
“Why not?” Raising his eyebrows, John was rather surprised that his son questioned an order; however he accepted (only just) that things had changed in his absence. Evidently, things had changed much more than he had initially anticipated. So he let it slide and decided to answer his question.   
“I don’t know if I’m ready to see him just yet – my energy has only just fully been restored, and I’m struggling talking to you now.” As if to prove his point, John faded slightly, and then bounced back instantaneously. “I also don’t think he would understand; you’ve seen how he is with hunting. He’s tenacious, and would insist I’m not me. He’d try to kill me, Dean.”  
“No, he wouldn’t. I’d make sure of it.” Dean replied determinedly, unable to comprehend why his dad would think such a thing. He of all people should know that Sam wouldn’t hurt him. But he remained stubborn.  
“I’m sorry, son. But I can’t risk it. Not yet.” John repeated, a definite sense of finality to his voice. That was the end of the discussion, and Dean knew it, therefore was reluctant to argue back. “Look, I have to go. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I can honestly barely stay visible right now, so I have to say goodbye for now. I’ll be looking out for you.”  
“Hang on- Dad!” Dean shouted, but by that time his father was already gone.  
Swivelling around in a frantic and fruitless attempt to locate his father once again, Dean simply refused to accept that his dad had left. However, the loyal son was being entirely irrational, and soon realised this, therefore mentally quelled his panic, quit spinning around and stilled his head instead of twisting it restlessly from side to side. John was still nowhere in sight.  
“Damnit!” The Winchester yelled in frustration, his hands balled into fists by his sides to represent his excessive rage. He reverted to standing helplessly in the centre of the room, an expression of shock gradually spreading across his face as the recent events fully sunk in. Dean Winchester had just been involved in a conversation with his dead dad. It was enough to drive anyone crazy; the hunter, however, wasn’t anyone. Having been through forty years of Hell (thirty of which had been spent enduring unimaginable torture at the hands of the most malevolent and experienced, violence-wise, demons), Dean knew he would get over it and deal with it. That was the Winchester way, after all.   
At that moment, Sam entered their motel room, perceiving his brother’s facial expression, and therefore, after also having heard Dean’s more than irritated exclamation, he became rather concerned. His eyebrows knitted together and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly, his heterochromic eyes revealing his superficial worry.   
“What’s up, Dean? Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
“Haha, right.” Dean laughed nervously to comfort his brother, yet was secretly amused at the irony of Sam’s choice of wording. He honestly had absolutely no idea how close he was to the real reason for his brother’s anger and/or shock. “No, I just thought I had a lead on my research but it turned out to be a dead end.” Yet another ironic phrase.   
“Wow. It’s not like you to get so wound up about research. Then again, you usually leave it to me.” Ignoring his brother’s dig at him, Dean stayed quiet and waited for Sam to continue. He did. “Anyway, I found out some valuable info from the victim’s friend…”  
The younger Winchester went on to describe his findings – he’d also checked out the crime scene while he was there – but Dean kind of filtered out his voice, only picking up the most important points. Following his conversation with John, Dean couldn’t help but dwell on the matter, and he was naturally curious as to where and when he would next appear, which meant not paying attention to his brother. However, his glassy-eyed look kind of gave away the fact that he wasn’t listening.  
“…Dean. Dean? Are you actually hearing a word I say?” Sam asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he picked up on the ignorance of his big brother. A moment later, Dean’s head turned upwards slowly and he replied, snapping out of his reverie.  
“What? Uh, yeah, sure; you were saying about the nest of vamps. Right?” But Sammy wasn’t convinced.  
“Dude, what is your problem? You’ve been acting strange ever since I got back. And don’t give me that ‘I couldn’t find anything from my research’ garbage.”   
“Okay, okay, fine. I just had another nightmare when I fell asleep a bit earlier, that’s all. I’m alright now.” Which was true. He simply chose to avoid mentioning the part that happened after. Dean never made the choice of lying to his brother purposely; it was always for a fundamental reason that would cause him less pain in the future, always good intentions. This time he was actually obeying their father’s order again, but of course he couldn’t say that as it would give the game away.  
“Fair enough.” Thankfully, Sam seemed to accept Dean’s reason, as he was reluctant to speak about his nightmares, since he had never been to Hell himself, he had sympathy for his brother, but not empathy. This made it difficult to comfort him, yet he was sure it would likely be even more challenging to help him if he did know what it was like.   
Changing the subject back to the job at hand, the Winchester boys resumed the case and, before long, headed out together to hunt the vampires, successfully beheading the entire nest with some degree of difficulty. After that, Sam and Dean continued hunting as normal. A werewolf here, a spirit there, a rugaru thrown in every now and then. They never forgot to stop at Bobby’s place regularly, reluctant to be in his bad books again and enjoying his company and inevitable expertise concerning any task at hand.   
The next time John appeared was in Wisconsin, when the brothers were faced with a particularly odd series of homicides which even extensive research could not reveal the root of. The boys spent many an hour sat in their motel room, poring over ancient lore on the web and in library books, but nothing came to them. They were, of course, too stubborn to call Bobby, being unwilling to uncover their ultimate confusion on the matter. Sam was just about to ring their adoptive father up, surrendering to his perplexed attitude, curiosity and also frustration at not being able to finish the job. He was outside for only a brief minute, reaching out his abnormally long arm to increase the height of his phone in order to get a signal, however in that time, John materialised in front of Dean after the general warning signs – EMF going nuts, Dean’s breath condensing in the air, etc. Dean almost jumped a foot in the air. He spoke after taking a deep breath to calm down after the shock.  
“Dad. I haven’t seen you in a couple weeks. What’s up?”   
“Not much. Listen, I don’t have long before Sam returns so I’ll tell you quickly; you’re dealing with a powerful spirit…” He went on to describe how to kill it, with Dean attentive as possible. John disappeared after explaining the second that Sam walked through the door without as much as a ‘how are you?’ Dean simply pretended he’d finally found the information via research, and Sam went along with it. They finished that hunt successfully too.   
That was how the father and son meetings played out for the next few weeks. Dean getting stressed over a case, then John appearing when he least expected it and informing him how to destroy whatever they were facing. Sam was still entirely clueless, and John still refusing to see him. And so it went on, until one very different day a month later.  
The thing is, John started appearing to his ever-bewildered and slightly skeptical yet loyal son more and more often, and every time he became visible in front of Dean, every time he arrived for a conversation, he seemed to become angrier and angrier. His visits got shorter too; their conversations no longer consisted of a father helping his son with a hunt so much a father getting cantankerous with his son and snapping at him to clear up his own messes, finish cases alone. In addition, John always departed with a phrase along the lines of ‘Don’t forget to protect Sammy’, those words becoming more forceful each time. At first, Dean simply obeyed his father’s orders and chose to stay ignorant of his irritable attitude; however he was getting ticked off with John’s undesirable tone. It was no way for a dad to talk to his boy, plus Dean thought maybe he could help his dad – if it was a tangible (or intangible) problem, then they could talk it out. Despite their now evident differences, the young hunter was always ‘here to help’, and, after all, family always comes first. Therefore, one day in mid-April, Dean decided to confront John. However, as he prepared a summoning spell in the middle of an abandoned warehouse while Sam was sleeping in a motel room, his father beat him to it, materialising a few feet away before he had the chance to even begin pronouncing the first word of his Latin incantation. The relatives had long ago gotten past the point of debilitating greetings: John got right down to business.  
“Dean. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” The spirit was far more furious than usual, ugly antagonism mutilating his features. Profound terror and fear began flourishing deep within Dean as he caught the downright petrifying expression upon his father’s face, even though he had no clue what had got John’s pants in a twist.   
“I… I don’t understand- What are you talking about?”  
“You know EXACTLY what I am talking about, son.” John thundered, pallid lights sparking violently as he practically spat out the last word. Perceiving the look on Dean’s face, he figured his son would be incompliant if he didn’t explain himself, therefore continued, his pure and distilled rage refusing to be quelled. “Sammy. The demon blood. He’s completely addicted to the stuff and it’s out of control! He’s your brother, Dean. You’re supposed to look out for him, which includes making sure he doesn’t become a damn blood junkie!” More lights flickered and the obsolete ingredients of the summoning spell scattered across the room due to a strong wind whipping through the warehouse.   
Despite the fact that Dean was well aware his dad’s spirit was irrefutably livid, furthermore dangerous as hell, he couldn’t just sit back and let himself be bossed about any longer. Sure, he was disappointed in himself for being unable to prevent his brother’s downward spiral into almost inhumanity. Sure, he knew it was his job to keep watch over him. But his demanding father was the ultimate hypocrite for saying what he just said. And Dean couldn’t keep quiet any longer.  
“Yeah, I know full well that Sam is my responsibility. But you know what? You’re our damn dad! So don’t burden me with this whole stupid problem when you could be doing something about it too. You’re a freaking spirit – surely you have more power than I do. Can’t you just confront him and stop him from going down this… doomed path before he becomes completely screwed to hell instead of being the damn coward that you are?” The youngest Winchester in the room rapidly developed the desire to retract his words the second they leapt out of his mouth. He knew straight away that he had made a massive mistake by speaking to his father like that, especially with his ferocious undead temper. Utter silence smothered the two figures for a few moments, but it felt like eternity as they stared at each other so intensely, you’d have thought they’d have bored holes into each other’s skulls. Eventually, John spoke up.  
“Maybe you think of me as a coward.” He began, his voice deadly calm. “But this is your mess to clear up, do you hear? Sammy is one hundred per cent your responsibility, so you will save him. There’s still time yet. But if you can’t… You still remember what I told you those couple years back just before I died, right?” Of course Dean remembered, but he chose to ignore his father’s last comment, pushing the thought to the farthest, darkest corner of his mind and addressing another section of John’s speech.  
“I don’t know how to do it, Dad.” Probably the greatest hunter of his generation spoke in the voice of a small and desperately terrified child, his voice cracking at the end of his sentence. He coughed sharply and deliberately, clearing his throat and strengthening his tone for his next words. “I was gonna call Bobby, get him to help me lock Sam in the panic room as a detox kind of thing, but...”  
“That old man can’t help you.” John interrupted in a harsh tone dripping with acid. The lost, hurt puppy look in his son’s eyes caused him to continue his explanation. “You’ve got to understand, Bobby may be a half-decent hunter, but he’s not family. You can’t count on him like you can count on me and Sammy. That’s why you’ve got to do this alone, Dean. This is your battle, so you will help your brother, and you will fight for him. Alone. I don’t care how you do it, or what sacrifices you have to make, but you must save him. And I’m telling you now, son; there is no way I’m leaving until you get him back on the right track.” The spirit’s voice evolved from softer, to understanding, to threatening throughout his little soliloquy. After one more pointed look to strike fear into Dean’s chest, John fizzled away, however the Winchester boy knew he was still watching. He would always be watching. Like John had said, he was not going to leave his son alone until he saved Sam and got him fully back to normal.   
Once Dean returned to the motel, he simply sat on his bed in the pitch black and stared at the immobile form of his sleeping brother. Obviously he couldn’t do anything immediately; it was the middle of the night, damnit. So he waited. His brain was working overtime as he frantically tried to formulate a plan to save his brother and make him kick the demon blood. Force him to, if that’s what it came to. Dean was genuinely fearful of his father’s wrath; especially since he had become a spirit, there was no telling what he would do to ensure Sammy’s safety. He was well aware that John was still scrutinizing every move he made – he was likely still in the motel room with them, breathing down his son’s neck. Despite this making Dean extraordinarily uncomfortable, it also motivated him to take action about Sammy. Perhaps he always had the plan to help his brother in him, to take forceful action against him if he had to. The hunter had always been vaguely aware of the fact that Sam’s demon blood addiction would get out of hand one day, however he guessed he refused to believe it, knew his little brother could handle it himself, without much intervention from him. This was clearly not the case. And now his dad had returned from beyond the grave to warn him and kick his butt into functioning, there was no denying his need to save him.   
On the other hand, Dean still didn’t have a sufficient plan, not without Bobby’s help. Yes, the hunter may have been an old man, but that didn’t hinder his evident capability and intelligence for such matters. By the end of the night, when the older Winchester brother hadn’t thought anything up, he found himself automatically reaching for his phone, scrolling down the contacts and hovering his finger over the call button of his adoptive father. However, in that brief moment of hesitation, Dean’s submissiveness to his father won out; he certainly didn’t want an angry – no, screw that – undisputedly furious vengeful spirit on his tail. Plus, his dad knew best.   
The next day, the Winchester decided to question his brother outright, instead of walking on eggshells while building his so-called ‘big idea’ of ridding him of his addiction. Surely that was an adequate first step. So, as Sam splashed his face with water from the mould-covered motel bathroom tap and haphazardly dragged a generic plaid shirt over his torso, Dean piped up.  
“Hey, uh, Sammy – can I ask you something?” He asked as confidently as possible, knowing that if he acted tentative, that would instigate another ‘heart-to-heart’ where they never seemed to tell each other the truth anyhow. Coughing sharply, Dean raised his eyebrows slightly in order to initiate Sam’s response.   
“Sure, Dean. Go ahead.” The younger brother answered as if he had nothing to hide, yet he performed his general tell – fondling his earlobe subconsciously – which made Dean instantly suspicious. He worded his next inquiry cautiously.  
“You are… dealing okay, aren’t you? Like, with the whole stopping-the-Apocalypse thing. You do know that we’re gonna find a way to ice Lilith, right? Together. There’s no need for you to be… doing anything extra-curricular to catch the creep alone.” When Sam’s expression turned from innocent to confused, Dean sighed and reverted to a tactically more direct question. “The demon blood, Sam. You’re clean, right? Since Alastair?”   
“Of course I am, Dean. I know we can find another way. It’s fine, you don’t have to worry about it.” However, Sam reached up to fiddle with his ear again, so Dean wasn’t convinced. If his dad had told him it was getting out of hand, it probably was. There was no reason for him to lie, and his sole reason for returning as a ghost was to protect his boys, after all.   
The older brother decided to leave it for now, realising there was nothing else he could do at that moment. Therefore, the two brothers finished off the case they were working, returned to their motel room and crashed out for the night, since they were both completely exhausted. Just as Dean started drifting off to sleep, a sharp voice cut through his soft and comforting haze of almost-unconsciousness, startling him as he jolted upright, definitely more awake than a second ago, yet still fuzzy.  
“DEAN! Do you realise where your brother is right now?” It was John, his expression as rage-warped as ever as he yelled in his son’s face. Dean simply stared, uncomprehending and sleep-stupefied. “HE’S OUTSIDE, DRINKING DEMON BLOOD FROM A DAMN FLASK!” That perked the boy up, yet he struggled to wrap his brain around what his dad had just said.  
“B-but he told me-”  
“Well clearly he lied!” Lights flickered ferociously, throwing iridescent sparks across the room as the spirit interrupted, balling his hands into fists. Refusing to calm down, he continued. “You have to stop him quickly, Dean, or else I will.” At that completely untrue comment (Dean knew his dad would never hurt Sammy – otherwise, why on Earth would he carry on to his son about protecting him so desperately?), Dean stood up, turning almost as angry as his father and shouted right back in his face.  
“What the hell am I supposed to do, huh? You won’t let me ring Bobby, which I clearly need to do for his damn help. You still won’t actually try and help him yourself. I can’t do this alone, Dad! At least let me tell Bobby what’s going on – he doesn’t have to help. I just need to share this damn burden with someone else, since you’re not helping!”  
“No way, son. You’ll think of something, you have to. But you’re not going to anyone for help. And I’m not leaving.” At that, John disappeared again, however he was still there, just invisibly creating the flickering lights and papers scattering across the room. Straightening up and heading towards the window, Dean noticed his brother striding across the parking lot, nearing their room with every gigantic step. He hastily hopped back into bed as the chaos ceased, managing to slow his breathing in order to fake slumber just in time for Sam entering the room. Dean observed from under one severely narrowed eyelid, watching as his brother glanced over at him to make sure he was sleeping, and then dived into bed himself. Just when he thought it was over – for the time being, at least – winds began to whip up again, an ice-cold breeze stinging Dean’s exposed skin and biting deep down into his bones. He had to use all of his will-power to not scream out in pain and confusion as John’s face flickered in and out of view. Sam was completely oblivious, his face utterly at peace in his unconscious state. His older brother figured that Sam’s inability to wake up into this nightmare was their father’s doing. This was a nightmare he’d cooked up especially for him.  
***  
The next week or so followed the same generic pattern: a sleep-deprived Dean only just managing to keep up with his kid brother on conventional hunts; returning to motels for the night, Dean pretending to be sleeping as he spied on Sam sneaking out to consume some more demon blood (thankfully he hadn’t met up with Ruby for a while, but it wasn’t much of a plus), then stressing out about his inability to formulate a legitimate plan to save his brother; trying to sleep again once Sam crept inconspicuously back into their room; being at the other end of the spectrum of peaceful slumber as the ghost of his dad revisited to plague his son with nightmarish phenomena; Dean’s face becoming more and more sunken and the smudges under his eyes darkening at the dawn of every new and renewably torturous day. After the first night that John’s spirit began to psychologically torment his son, Dean knew instantly that his father was lost – that he was no longer anything but an angry spirit that, rather sadistically, almost enjoyed the pain of others, no matter who it was. He couldn’t possibly be a docile ghost, longing to care for still-living relatives. If he truly wished to protect his sons, he would have found a way to help Sammy himself using his newfound skills as a spirit instead of punishing Dean, preventing him from maintaining a well-rested state, therefore causing him to be sluggish and unable to kick his mind into gear to generate a plan. Furthermore, Dean couldn’t support his brother, which only infuriated John all the more. And John getting more annoyed equalled more pain for Dean, which led to more exhaustion, which made helping Sammy more unattainable, etc. Basically, the older Winchester brother’s life had been drastically converted into a vicious circle of fatigue, curmudgeonliness and almost intolerable psychological agony.   
Naturally, Sam was preoccupied with his unhealthy obsession with hunting down Lilith, consuming demon blood in order to grow strong enough to take her down, and being concerned about his dwindling supply of the aforementioned substance, since Ruby hadn’t been in contact for months. Therefore, he didn’t appear to notice his brother’s rapid deterioration, other than questioning his well-being every now and then when he did realise his big brother hadn’t been sleeping recently. Dean, being one of the most obstinate people on the planet, refused to admit to his broken fortitude, knowing that there was nothing Sam could do about it. Plus, John had kind of read Dean’s mind about crawling to his little brother and confessing everything, and soon put him in his place, supporting his revulsion of the idea with increased torture. Going to Bobby was entirely out of the question, as the Winchester’s father had expressed his evident opinion on that suggestion previously. He had absolutely no-one to go to. The spirit had succeeded in Dean’s ultimate isolation.   
After ten days exactly, Dean simply couldn’t take it anymore. He had a plan, but one completely different to the one John had in mind. No, this plan had nothing to do with Sammy. This plan was all about Dean standing up to his family, facing his lifelong fear and confronting his dreaded father. And thus, one morning, when the purely hopeful haze of pink and orange climbed victoriously up to greet the horizon, hauling up the young sun behind it, the deeply troubled hunter hastily packed his bags, grabbed his car keys and jumped in the Impala. He drove far and he drove fast on his quest to rid his life of more insanity he could barely deal with.   
Twenty-seven minutes later, Sam Winchester woke up with a start, back in the motel room that Dean had left him in, alone. The previous pre-law student, despite being intelligent and having sharp deductive skills also had acute instincts, especially when concerning his family. So he knew, when he saw his brother’s motel bed scruffy and unmade, topped with a hastily scribbled note that balanced precariously atop the rolls and waves of the quilt, that something was seriously wrong.   
Leaping out of bed and clumsily pulling on another plaid shirt, denim jacket and jeans, Sam clutched the note in his sweaty-with-fear hands. It read:  
Sorry, Sammy  
Had to go,  
D  
The younger brother desperately attempted to calm his tenaciously beating heart as he dashed outside, his half-packed rucksack slung half-heartedly over one shoulder, Dean’s note still attached to his other hand. It’s okay, he probably just caught wind of a job, Sammy told himself over and over again, but he still didn’t believe it. Something was very wrong. Hey, at least he left a note: if he hadn’t, that would have been worse, surely? He’s letting you know he’s okay. Sam repeated comforting words to himself as he sprinted across the motel parking lot, sliding a piece of metal in-between an arbitrary car window and the framework in order to break into the vehicle. When successful, he spent a few minutes breathing heavily as he hot-wired the engine as steadily as possible in his panicked state. Once the engine began rumbling underneath him (the purring of the new car was nowhere near as reassuring as the Impala’s, of course, however, how could it be?), Sam realised he had no idea where to drive to; Dean had left no clues, so there was no way to track him down immediately. With this new and all the more unnerving information, the younger brother decided it was best to call Bobby. The old hunter answered after half a ring – he must have just started phone duty for that day.   
“Sam?” Bobby began, and the sound of his adoptive father’s voice cracked Sammy instantaneously. His words tumbled over each other in their attempt to escape from his lips simultaneously, causing the ultimate jumble of nonsensical sentences to erupt through Bobby’s receiver.   
“Dean’sbeenactingstrangeforageslikehe’snotbeensleepingorconcentratingonhuntingproperlyortalkingtomeandnowhe’sjustleftearlythismorningwhileIwasstillasleepandIdunnowhattodocosIthinkhe’sintroubleIneedyourhelpBobbypleasehelpmenow.” Sam tried to calm down and speak rationally, but, as you can see, that failed epically.   
“Alright, calm down, kid. I can’t understand a word you’re sayin’ if ya don’t speak normally, ya idjit. Start from the beginning.” So the distressed Winchester took a deep breath and proceeded to state his account of Dean’s recent perturbing mood, going on to describe his concerns that he’d kept quiet about since he had no desire to irritate Dean, well aware that he despised being badgered by anyone, and finishing up with him waking up in the morning to discover Dean’s absence and the note.   
“Please, Bobby, I don’t know where he would have gone. I just need your help on this one.” He concluded, pleading with the old hunter. Picking up on his despairing tone, Bobby softened his own voice to try help Sam to relax – it was always more difficult to think straight when anxious, and Bobby knew better than anyone that Winchesters had a habit of letting emotion take the figurative front seat of their brains once either brother was potentially in danger.   
“That’s what I’m here for, boy. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Now, think: where would you go if you were Dean, sleep-deprived and troubled about a serious matter, and clearly in need of comfort, apart from with family?” And so the plotting began, as the brother and adoptive dad of Dean narrowed down the places he could have disappeared off to. But the question was, even if Sam did manage to find the right place, would he get there in time to save his brother from whatever was haunting him?

The familiar purr of the Impala’s engine was drowned out by the radio, which emitted some equally comforting classic rock music from one of Dean’s many cassette tapes. Dean wasn’t consciously aware of which song it was, or even of the singer, just that it helped him find temporary peace in such dark times. It was one of his many ways of coping with the unbearable problems he was forced to deal with on a daily basis, other than drowning his sorrows in strong whiskey and pushing away the people he loved most, and who thought of him in very much the same way. The newly replaced tyres screeched like tortured parrots as the Winchester burned rubber down the highway in the late afternoon. He wasn’t in a particular rush, however he wanted this stage of agony and pain to be over as quickly as possible; plus, he knew that, despite having a couple hours maximum disadvantage, Sammy would soon catch up.   
At around quarter to twelve at night, Dean had arrived at his destination: Lawrence, Kansas. But he wasn’t quite at the right place yet. Driving rather leisurely through the streets of his childhood town, he relived a few of his happiest memories, back when their mother was alive and there were no demons or monsters or evil – not to them, at least. He drove past the park where John had first taught him the rules of football, where they had had picnics once a week together as a family; he drove past the diner where John had treated him to his first burger, the day he had first fallen in love with food; he drove past the hospital in which Sam was born, where Dean had burst into tears of joy at seeing his beautiful baby brother and sworn to protect him for the rest of his life. Finally, he reached his true location. His childhood home, in which he had lived for the first four years of his life with baby Sammy and their wonderful parents. There it stood, currently uninhabited, the pale green paint peeling away from the foundations, a couple of windows boarded up due to the reckless and destructive actions of mindless vandals, the creepy old tree looming intimidatingly over the overgrown lawn. Yet the front door remained exactly the same as Dean remembered – sturdy and resolute, the russet overcoat intact, seemingly no rust tainting the metal door handle or letterbox, not from a distance, anyway. After a few minutes of reminiscing and falling into the inevitable pit of nostalgia, Dean realised there was no point in delaying. He had to get this over with.  
Stepping purposefully out of the car, the creaking of the door pursuing him, Dean approached the house, confidently at first, then somewhat more tentatively as he got closer. It was only when his face was centimetres away from the door when he noticed every single blemish, every crack and mark on the front door. But still he managed to find comfort in his old house; after all, it’s the little flaws that make something perfect.   
There was no need to pick the lock – the door was already open, as no-one lived there. Dean gently grasped the handle and strode in, closing it shut as quietly as possible behind him. He stood still for a moment, breathing in abandoned house musk, yet he detected an underlying scent that he recognised from his time spent living there from twenty-six years ago. Feeling himself slip back into nostalgia, the Winchester straightened up, snapping back to reality as his mission came flooding back. The actual plan was to drive back to his old house, knowing that John would hitch a ride too (he figured the object keeping him there as a spirit was on Dean somewhere, since he appeared anywhere where he was), and hoping that all the good memories of their happy family years due to supernatural nescience would neutralise him somehow. The unexpected familiar surroundings certainly irked the spirit’s curiosity; John materialised in front of Dean just as he stepped into Sam’s old nursery. This time, Dean addressed his father first.  
“Dad. I was hoping you’d follow me here. Counting on it, actually.” His son stated anxiously, carefully studying his dad’s expression as he swept his gaze around the room. He didn’t have to wait long for a verbal response. Surprisingly, it was one of utter bewilderment.  
“Why are we here, son? Do you think the cure for your brother’s addiction is here?” John’s tone soon turned forceful again, yet with an undeniable hint of admiration and disbelief at the idea of his son finally obeying him and finding a way to help Sammy. Dean’s face fell immediately as he realised that as soon as he admitted he had no cure, his dad would turn all vengeful spirit on him again. However, he knew he had to answer to John, or he would get even angrier.  
“Uh, well… No, but-”  
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO?” At that outburst, the lone light bulb swaying above Dean’s head erupted in a violent spark of orange and every door in the house slammed shut; the sinister clicking sound of the front door locking could clearly be heard. There was no way out. Dean’s head whipped from side to side as he spun around, searching for another exit, but the window was also securely locked. As he turned back to face his father, the most malicious grin began crawling across John’s face. A chuckle that could turn milk sour rumbled inside him, and soon exploded from between his lips as a fully-fledged bout of purely evil laughter. The younger Winchester of this situation was now irrevocably terrified as he stared at the spirit (he could hardly be called his dad now) with eyes as wide as fearful saucers and his mouth hanging open slightly in utter helplessness. After an eternity filled with terror and dreaded anticipation, John spoke in a scarily calm voice, one corner of his mouth still turned upwards in a malevolent smirk.  
“So, you mean to tell me that you dragged us both a couple states over, for nothing? That you completely ignored my orders and still haven’t found a way to help your brother?” A moment of silence ensued (Dean assumed the question was rhetorical), until the ghost chuckled darkly once again, sighed, tilted his head to one side and continued. “Oh, Dean… When will you ever learn?”  
“Did you really think you could get away with it? Disobeying my direct orders and refusing to help your brother?” John Winchester seethed, pausing between every other word as he rained down vicious punches on his son. He’d used his spirit powers to telekinetically pin Dean up against the wall of Sammy’s nursery, therefore he was utterly defenceless. The terrified and futile hunter could only look on as his own father unrelentingly beat him to the point where he was close to death, despite his desperately weak pleas for him to stop. Vehement winds verging on a hurricane swept aggressively throughout the room; there wasn’t any furniture in the room since it had been cleared after the last family moved out years ago, but if there had been, it would have been completely trashed. The fierce weather brought with it a strikingly biting cold chill, however Dean barely noticed – the pain from the ghost’s brutality blocked out all other sensations, apart from one. One emotion so intense it was almost tangibly agonising: betrayal. Little, sycophantic Dean Winchester simply couldn’t comprehend why his own flesh and blood would act in such a violent manner toward him, yet he still defended his dad in his mind, putting it down to the fact that he was a spirit, a vengeful one at that, therefore was no longer able to sympathise or even care. Knowing this, the hunter managed to force himself to address John in between punches.  
“Da… Dad…?” He began gingerly, barely able to produce words as he stared into his father’s eyes, still bright-with-hope green meeting death-dulled grey. However, Dean was almost as tenacious as his brother on occasion, and knew this was a matter of life and death, so, after coughing up a bubble of deep crimson blood, he metaphorically shoved the letters out of his bloodied lips. “Dad. I know you’re in there…” But John continued his binge on rage-fuelled violence, however spared the time to reply to his son.  
“Oh, I know I’m in here. The thing is, this is all me. That’s right, son. It’s your dad that’s stood here, punishing you for your… disloyalty.” John carefully chose his last word, knowing it would strike a nerve with Dean, who was always striving to serve him as best he could. Well, clearly not any more. “You’re too much of a coward to admit to yourself what a failure you are. Too scared of the thought that your daddy would ever hurt you.” At those comments, the spirit threw its head back and roared with laughter yet again, evidently fancying himself as some sort of comedy genius. Regaining his malicious composure instantaneously, he spat out a few final words before dishing out another flurry of blows. “You really are a pathetic excuse of a son.”  
Further agonising hits ensued; the onslaught was never-ending. The cruellest factor of the whole scenario was the cutting verbal offenses that John persisted in yelling, to add the ultimate insult to injury, literally. He constantly yelled about the whole point of Dean’s existence: to protect Sammy, to look out for him and save him from dangers. And, according to the spirit, the whole reason for his return was to make sure he was abiding by that golden rule – the fact that he wasn’t, that he hadn’t found a way to help his brother, even after John’s clear warning, was utterly unacceptable for him.  
For a short while, Dean apologised, over and over again, attempting to explain himself. Then, he simply stopped trying to communicate with John. He knew that anything he said would get turned out its head, twisted and warped beyond recognition, so that it would only end up insulting him and crushing any remaining hope or self-esteem. Besides, he couldn’t physically speak anymore: nasty welts had blossomed on his delicate face, throbbing like hell; one eye was swollen up like a mutated and bruised balloon to the point where he couldn’t see out of it; acidic red liquid had crawled down his forehead and dripped excruciatingly into the other eye, so sight out of that one was extremely limited. As if to test the capability of his eyes, furthermore extent of his vision, Dean twisted his head to one side, so it was parallel to the wall, at such an angle that he was facing the door to the nursery. It was securely shut, of course; every door in the house was. Yet a moment later, the battered and broken hunter thought he heard banging on the weakened wood, and muffled shouting from the outside. However, he couldn’t be sure, as blood had somehow blocked up his ear canals too; the invasive liquid had found its way into every possible orifice in his head. In addition, John himself showed no signs of detecting such sounds.   
Eventually, all senses (particularly sight and sound) simply fell away from Dean, as if they had been eradicated from reality. All that was left was an ambiguous haze somewhere between existing and not, where he was vaguely aware of death rapidly approaching him, yet didn’t have the ability to be concerned about it. If the Winchester was completely honest, he was happy for all his ludicrously heavy responsibilities to just slip away along with his life as he drifted into oblivion.   
“DEAN? DEAN! IT’S OKAY, I’M COMING IN! JUST HANG IN THERE!” Outside his old nursery door, Sam Winchester frantically pounded his fists on the wood, screaming obsolete niceties in order to reassure his brother. He would usually try to stay calm and creep up to the door stealthily, but he honestly didn’t give a damn if the spirit heard him. He just had to get to Dean.   
Soon realising thumping the door wasn’t going to solve any problems, Sammy took a few steps back, lifted up his leg and shoved his booted foot into the direct centre of the wooden panel. Not much happened; the door rattled in its hinges, yet remained unmoved. Repeating his actions three more times, Sam’s reckless attempt at getting to his brother was finally successful. The door swung violently inwards, crashing against the inside wall and revealing the terribly grim scene that was far worse than the younger Winchester brother had anticipated. Dean was pinned to the far wall, a couple of feet off the ground, with an entirely disfigured face due to the extreme violence that had been inflicted upon him. He was quite obviously unconscious, if not dead already. Yet in front of his condemned brother was an even more horrifying sight: their father. Not completely, of course (it was clear he was a spirit, due to his grey colour and hazy static edges), but their father all the same. His red-misted rage was undeniably the source of the problem; Sam instantly figured out that he must have been visiting Dean for a while, and eventually turned completely vengeful. It was inevitable, but the older Winchester brother must have gone too long without taking action, and now it had gone too far, resulting in his probable demise.  
Ignoring the thought of the events that had brought them all there, Sammy ran to his brother, constantly calling his name. John’s head whipped around to face him, but Sam simply struck through his figure with an iron rod before he could respond, desperate to get his brother help. He knew he couldn’t let his die, not here, not like this. The only thing he had to find was the object connecting the spirit to Earth. Once he found that, he could stop all this. But what item, evidently on Dean somewhere, could that possibly be?  
Thankfully, John had yet to reappear; therefore Sam took the opportunity to search for the object. Dashing over to his brother, he considered patting his face in order to comfort him, however he had no desire to cause Dean more pain – since his face was so severely beaten up, Sam figured it would be more harmful than reassuring to lay a hand on it. Instead, the younger brother scrutinized every bit of Dean’s clothing and accessories in an attempt to find the item John could be connected to. He knew it couldn’t be his shirt, jeans or jacket, as he changed them daily, and the spirit must have been visiting him most days to gain his trust so deeply. So it had to be something else. He knew John had never donated an organ if/when Dean was ever ill in the past, unless he had when Sam was at Stanford… But surely not; they would have told him. His brother’s watch was just an arbitrary one from a cheap second-hand shop, therefore would be of no significance to John. That left one object: the amulet that Sam had given Dean as a Christmas present back in 1991. Clearly the amulet was important, as the older Winchester brother treasured it and wore in constantly. And, of course, the gift was initially meant for John himself. Yes, that had to be it.  
“Dean… It’s okay, I’m gonna sort this out. I just need this for second-” Sam murmured to his still-unconscious big brother as he hastily snatched the golden amulet from around Dean’s neck. He would be sorry to see the beloved present go, however it was necessary if he didn’t want to see his brother die. Just as he pulled out his lighter to burn the amulet, he felt a hand grab the bottom of his jacket. Gasping in fright and expecting his dad’s ghost to be the one to whom the hand belonged, Sam whirled around to discover it was Dean. He was barely conscious yet his determination and stubbornness allowed him to seize wakefulness while he had the chance. Sam noticed his brother’s lips moving, yet couldn’t hear anything, so crouched down next to him, his ear close to Dean’s bloodied mouth.   
“Sam… Don’t… do it…” He pleaded desperately, clearly forcing out his whispered words with all his remaining will power. Knowing he had to get his point across and persuade Sam not to get rid of the spirit, he continued after a bout of weak coughing that spattered his lips with yet more sinister red. “He’s still… our dad… You can’t… kill him…”  
“That isn’t our dad anymore. Look at what he did to you, Dean! I’m sorry, but that thing is no more than a vengeful spirit. I may be too late to save him from hurting you, but I sure as hell won’t let him hurt you anymore.” At that, Sam took one last long glance at his brother, whose expression was vaguely unfathomable due to his injuries, yet Sam knew that under the gore was the look of utter devastation and desperation. However, the younger Winchester couldn’t let it get to him. He had to do his job. He had to save his brother. So he had to get rid of their father.   
As Sam turned around, John materialised a few feet in front of him. Sammy froze in his place, the amulet lightly swaying from side to side as it dangled down from his right hand which was raised up high, and the lighter in his left, unlit yet open ready to be lit. John was as surprised to see his younger son as Sam was to see his dad as a ghost; therefore they simply stood there, staring at each other in faint bewilderment for a few calm moments. Eventually, John began to talk first.  
“Sammy. I’ve missed you, son.” When he spoke, his tone was gentle and saturated with melancholic emotion. Sam almost softened to him when he heard how genuine he sounded. Before doing anything else, the younger Winchester slowly turned his head back to look at Dean, distantly aware that whatever he did would determine his next actions. At first Sam thought that his brother had fallen unconscious again – his eyes appeared to be entirely closed and he was unresponsive – but then, almost imperceptively, Dean shook his head. Evidently, he lacked the strength to speak, but still persisted in warning his little brother not to do it; not to get rid of their dad’s ghost. In that moment, Sam was completely torn between following his brother’s desire and finishing what should be a generic hunt. Everyone in the room could sense the pivotal moment in Sam’s mind, yet there was no need for anyone to speak (the able ones, anyway), to try and persuade him any longer. Turning back to John, Sam looked at his ‘dad’, truly looked at him. The superficial smile, the hands clenched at his sides, his new monochromatic hue – he noticed every little thing about him. And finally, he decided that he didn’t know this creature before him. He knew it wasn’t the man who had brought him and his brother up. Instead, it was the thing their dad had taught them to kill.  
“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered, to… to whom, exactly? To his dad, to the ghost, to Dean, to himself? He did not know, but he said it anyway. Flicking the lighter, from which a tiny flame erupted instantly, the younger Winchester held it underneath the amulet, and watched as the fake gold melted. Once John realised what his son was doing, he reached out a ghostly hand.  
“NO! NO!” He screeched as blinding orange fire licked at his shoes before rapidly progressing to devour his entire form. In less than two seconds, he was gone. Every door in the house creaked open, and the windows and front door unlocked. It was over.  
But Sam couldn’t allow himself a relieved smile yet; Dean remained slumped against the wall, his breathing erratic and dangerously shallow, blood dripping off his features and pooling on the floorboards underneath his head. Sparing no more time, Sam rushed over to him immediately, cradling Dean in his arms and begging him to wake up, at least for a second to show him he could make it. The older brother moaned softly in pain, knowing it was all over, yet saving his complaints about killing their dad’s spirit for later. He knew that Sammy was extremely worried about him at the moment, therefore tried to tell him he was okay, but no words came out, only a barely audible groan. Discovering that Dean was momentarily awake, Sam hauled him up off the floor, struggling to carry him yet refusing to let him go. He draped one of his brother’s arms around him, and used both of his own to hold him in a fairly secure grip.   
“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just hang in there – we’ll get you to a hospital soon. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine, Dean. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.” Sam repeated comforting phrases constantly to keep Dean going as he practically dragged him out of the house and dropped him into the backseat of the Impala. Leaping into the driver’s seat, the younger brother drove to the nearest hospital that fast they were nearly flying. Once they arrived, nurses and doctors swarmed around Dean as Sam hastily told them he’d been mugged and beaten up on the way home from some bar.   
Intense anxiety clouded Sam’s features as he watched the doctors speed away with his brother on a stretcher, shouting medical jargon at one another that Sam didn’t understand a word of. He just hoped it meant Dean would pull through.   
He’s fine. He’s always fine, he’s my big brother. Damnit, I’ll kill him if he doesn’t make it, Sam repeated in his head as a strange way of reassuring himself. He paced up and down the disinfectant-scented corridor a hundred times as he nervously awaited results of Dean’s condition. Many emotions swam through his brain, causing him to be restless and twitchy. Fear, rage and anxiety, to name a few. He simply couldn’t keep still. It was his way of dealing with the intense feelings he always experienced when his big brother was in danger. Eventually, a nurse approached him with a sympathetic and therefore more than a bit patronising smile upon her face. She addressed him using a kindly tone.  
“You must be Sam Winchester?” She asked rhetorically, clearly having a record of all the patients and their next of kin. “Your brother is in a very bad condition, however we seem to have stabilized him for now.” The nurse’s voice turned suddenly harsh. “Well, I mean, he’ll probably die anyway, but that means all the more torture for us, right?” As Sam looked up, straight away he noticed her eyes flash pure ebony, and made a double take as she giggled maliciously. Keeping as calm as possible, he pulled out Ruby’s knife and glared threateningly at the demon. The smile refused to fall from her face as she tilted her head to one side and spoke again.  
“A demon-killing knife? How cute. But stabbing a nurse in a hospital? Bad idea, kiddo.” She has a point, Sam thought, yet he was honestly far too apathetic about getting into trouble at the moment; he was too concerned about Dean, therefore would do anything to protect him, even if that did mean killing the nurse in public. He could, of course, use his newfound demon-killing telekinetic powers, yet he knew that would likely draw more attention to them, and it still took a lot out of him, especially since he hadn’t consumed any demon blood in a while, thanks to Ruby.  
“Don’t think I won’t do it.” Sam replied darkly. And, rather surprisingly, the demon believed him. Throwing her head back, a grey-black smoke burst out of the nurse’s mouth, writhing in its desperation to escape from a Winchester. It travelled upwards, squeezed through the ceiling tiles, and was gone. The nurse herself collapsed on the floor. Sam realised that wouldn’t look good on his part, so crouched down, placed an arm around the nurse’s shoulders and called for assistance.   
Immediately after the nurse had been taken off to be checked out, and Sam had explained that she just ‘fainted’ when speaking to him, a perturbingly loud alarm rang out, drowning out all other sounds in its entirety. Doctors dashed across the corridor and into room 30, shouting at each yet again. This unnerved Sam immensely, since he vaguely recalled the room number, then abruptly realised it was the room in which Dean currently resided. At that revelation, the younger Winchester froze as distantly anarchic chaos ensued, unfolding around him at an alarming rate. He was strangely calm, despite knowing that his big brother could potentially be dead in a hospital room. Everything was in slow-motion as his head swivelled from side to side, his brunette locks swishing along with it as he attempted to find some sort of order to the utter pandemonium. Then, when his brain finally kicked into gear, he took excessive action, charging like a bull down the corridor and into Dean’s room, recklessly throwing doctors and nurses aside as he frantically shoved his way to the front of the crowd surrounding his brother. He didn’t care about anything in that instance other than the one thought spinning around in his head: I have to get to Dean. I have to get to Dean. I have to save Dean. Nothing else mattered.  
After Sam’s initial burst of strength powered by adrenaline, he slumped down, helpless and aware of his inability to save his big brother from imminent death. The doctors, who had been defenceless against Sam’s wrath at first therefore done nothing to stop him, now wrestled him to the floor. They were about to sedate him, yet decided against it when they realised it was the little brother of the man who was currently dying, so knew he wouldn’t want to be completely senseless in his last moments. Also, Sam had quit struggling, so there was no need to administer sedatives. However, a couple of doctors did usher him out of the room so they could focus on trying to restart Dean’s heart.   
When he was outside, Sam collapsed into a chair with a ripped seat that had stuffing bleeding out of it. He was on the verge of a sobbing fit when a plan formulated in his mind. It wasn’t to make a deal with a crossroads demon – when Dean was in Hell, none of them would take him, so why would now be any different? – he knew Dean wouldn’t want that anyway. But he certainly wasn’t going to let his brother die again. The Winchester way was to never give up on family. But no, demons were not going to be a part of this. Not this time. This time, they had an angel up their sleeve.  
Standing up slowly, as if he was scared of shattering into many tiny pieces, Sam strolled outside the hospital, where a gentle and warm breeze was prominent, despite the sun not being out. Silently and purposefully, he crept around the side of the building so he was out of sight, closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the sky. And Sam began to pray.  
“Castiel. I don’t know if you’ve got your ears on; I sure hope so. I know you’re probably busy with stopping the Apocalypse, but I need you to listen. Dean is dying. That’s right. In fact, he might be dead already. It doesn’t matter how or why, but you just need to get down here and heal him. I…” Sam trailed off, a sob sticking in his throat and almost choking him. “I don’t think I could survive this time if he…” Yet again, he stopped. Taking a deep and shaky breath, he forced himself to conclude the prayer. “Just get down here, okay? We need you.”  
A moment later, Sam heard a gentle flapping sound like sheets on a washing line and warily opened his eyes. Stood before him was no less than the trench coat clad, blue-eyed, scruffy-haired dear friend of the Winchesters. It was Castiel.   
“Sam. Where is he?” The angel got straight down to business after the quickest and most half-hearted greeting in history.   
“In there.” Sam gestured towards the hospital building next to him. “Room 30.” Before the younger Winchester had even finished his last syllable, Castiel had vanished in another abrupt yet comforting flutter. Sam then raced back into the hospital, ignoring the further protests of the medical staff as he burst through the door of Dean’s room. When he arrived, the doctors had just announced the time of death and were dishing out pitying glances at him as they left, giving Sam some time on his own with his dead brother. Fortunately, since they had their backs turned, they didn’t see Castiel behind them, staring with a longing and painful gaze at Dean. It occurred to Sam that the angel hadn’t actually seen his brother dead before; he’d obviously seen his soul when he rescued him from the pit, but not his physical dead figure. However, Castiel wasted no time. He softly laid a hand on Dean’s forehead, no exertion detectable in his facial expression. A piercing bright white light emanated from his hand for a few seconds along with a high-pitched noise, and then it was gone.   
Nothing happened for a moment, and Sam thought it hadn’t worked. But then, once Dean sat up, desperately inhaling and his frightened eyes jumping from his angel and his brother, the younger Winchester knew he should maintain his faith in the angels.   
“I’m sorry, Sam, Dean. But I must go. The garrison requires my assistance.” At those final words, Castiel disappeared.   
“Wait! Thank… you.” Sam exclaimed then trailed off in his expression of gratitude, realising that the angel probably wouldn’t hear him. That little guy never stuck around for longer than was necessary. Turning back to his brother, Sam studied Dean’s expression and seemingly perfect health.  
“Dean! Are you okay? How do you feel? You’re not still in pain, are you?” The questions wouldn’t stop rolling off the younger brother’s tongue in his desperation to check Dean’s well-being.  
“Whoa, whoa, slow down there cowboy! Yeah, I’m… fine. What happened?” Dean appeared to not be lying for once, yet remained utterly bewildered.   
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything later. Let’s get you discharged and we’ll head over to Bobby’s.”   
“What? No way. Until you tell me exactly what happened, I ain’t moving.” Dean stated obstinately, raising his eyebrows at his little brother as if to secure his stubborn negotiation. Sam shifted from foot to foot before sighing and rolling his eyes.  
“Fine.” He reluctantly accepted Dean’s deal. “But first, what do you remember?” Sam was always the champion of countering responses with a certain degree of sass.  
“I remember… being at home, Dad’s ghost…” The older brother trailed off, wincing at the memory of his beating. It was evident he still couldn’t believe it, and would take a while to get over it. Being beaten to literal death by your dead dad must be psychologically scarring. “Then you came in and took my amulet. Last thing I remember is you stood holding it and staring at me and Dad. After that, only darkness.”  
“Okay. Well, shortly after that I burned the amulet which made Dad – the spirit – disappear…” After telling Dean that it was him that got rid of John’s ghost, Sam stole an anxious glance at his brother, sure that he would be furious with him, but he simply nodded slightly, inferring that he wished for Sam to continue his account of the day’s events. However, the younger Winchester did notice that Dean avoided his gaze, therefore knew deep down that he wouldn’t forget what Sam had done and would likely mention it at a later time, when it was more appropriate. For now, Sam carried on narrating the story. “By then, you were badly injured, so I carried you into the car and drove you here. We’re in a hospital, by the way.” He hastily added, unsure as to whether Dean was aware of his surroundings.   
“Yeah, I get that.” The older brother replied with a vague sense of sarcasm, gesturing at his hospital gown and the medical equipment that encircled him. He didn’t speak not completely nastily – he knew Sam was only trying to help. The younger Winchester continued nonetheless, brushing off his brother’s remark.  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Er, anyway… So you were only in here about an hour or so and then you, uh, well… died.” Sam looked extremely edgy at his last comment, studying Dean’s expression as the news sunk in.  
“Ahaha, sorry but I don’t think my ears healed properly when I came back from the afterlife – I what?” Dean laughed nervously, maintaining his ever-present, light-hearted wit. Sam scratched the back of his head awkwardly, yet the small hint of an amused smile was just detectable when he carried on.  
“You heard me, Dean. You died.”  
“Wait, but that means…” Rather unexpectedly, Dean jumped up out of the hospital bed and grabbed the front of Sam’s jacket, a thunderous expressions soon smothering his face. The younger brother was completely startled, bordering on fearful of his brother’s rage, yet he knew he wouldn’t harm him. This would-be comforting piece of information still couldn’t allow him to relax, however. “Sammy, don’t you dare tell me you made a deal.” His eyes bored into his little brother’s head, silently demanding an immediate answer. There was no need for him to elaborate on what he meant by ‘deal’; they both knew he was referring to negotiating with a crossroads demon, which was what had caused Dean to go to Hell in the first place.  
“What? No! No, you know I’m not that stupid, Dean! Besides, if no demon would take my soul when you went to Hell, why would they now?” Sam used his valid logic to reason with his brother and convince him that he was telling the truth. After another tense moment of staring at each other, Dean let go of his little brother and paced across to the other side of the room, clearly believing him.  
“Then what? How am I still breathing right now if I was stone cold dead on a slab?” Dean inquired with an extremely suspicious tone, ever the sceptic.   
“You weren’t actually on a slab.” Sam muttered pedantically.  
“What?”  
“Just saying, you were only dead for like five seconds so you weren’t… Never mind.” Displaying a bewildered expression, Dean didn’t question his little brother. After trailing off, Sam cleared his throat loudly and continued. “The doctors all went rushing in but they couldn’t save you. You remember seeing Cas when you woke up?”  
“Of course, how could I forget?” The older brother pictured the scene from a mere few minutes ago: spluttering and frantically sucking in air to refill his lungs with precious oxygen, his eyelids flying open to reveal his little brother standing next to him in what appeared to be a hospital room and, on the other side of his bed, the familiar and sincere yet relieved face of his angel, who uttered something to Sam and promptly vanished after he saw a flash of tan from his trench coat. He definitely remembered that.  
“Well while the doctors were trying to resuscitate you, I went outside and prayed to him. He arrived straight away and after I told him which room you were in, he healed you. Brought you back. Of course, he had to leave pretty soon after – he said his garrison needed him or whatever, but you know Cas…”  
“Yeah…” Dean was interrupted by the shrill ringing of Sam’s mobile phone. After checking the caller ID, Sam stated that it was Bobby before answering.  
“Bobby. Yeah, don’t worry, we’re both fine. Of course, we’re on our way now. Yeah, I know- We’ll tell you everything when we get there. Yep… Sure. See you soon. Bye.” Dean could only hear Sam’s side of the conversation, but he assumed that their adoptive father was naturally being concerned about his boys and verbally kicking Sam’s butt for not contacting him sooner. He wasn’t wrong.  
“Bobby says we have to go to his place as soon as possible. Come on, let’s get going.” Sam urged, gathering Dean’s clothes from a drawer and shoving them into his chest.   
“Man, I can’t wait to see the look on the nurses faces when I walk out of here.” Chuckling to himself, Dean hurriedly pulled on his trousers and smiled up at his brother with the most infectious grin ever.  
“So would I, but that’s why we’re taking the back door.” Sam smirked back at his brother, seeing his face fall. Dean was always into nurses.  
After the Winchesters had managed to sneak through the back door of the hospital, somehow avoiding the sightlines of the medical staff (including the nurses, much to Dean’s dismay), they jumped in the Impala and prepared to set off. When they reached the sleek black car, Sam and Dean both flocked to the driver’s door. Dean, with his tunnel vision when it came to his baby, only realised this when their hands both extended towards the smooth silver handle. Simultaneously, the brothers raised their heads upwards and turned to glare at one another, Dean most of all.  
“The hell do you think you’re doing, Sammy?” The older brother asked, his tone harsh and spiteful. There was no fooling around when it concerned his baby. This was serious business.  
“Uh… You kinda just died, Dean. I thought I’d drive, give you a break…” Sam replied, yet the more he spoke, the more he realised he should never have suggested such a thing due to Dean’s face growing more disbelieving as he went on.  
“Well, you thought wrong.” Not needing to shove his little brother away (since he moved automatically out of respect), Dean hauled the car door open and leapt in, sighing in contentment as he felt the well-worn and placating leather surround him. Shortly after, Sam climbed in the other side, coughing uncomfortably but soon relaxing as he discovered Dean had been pacified the second he returned to his baby.  
Back in the hospital, the nurses and doctors were in utter bafflement after finding Dean’s body gone from the room in which he had died. Chaos ensued as they frantically scuttled around the building attempting to locate him once again. After being unable to do so, the ludicrous tale soon hit the front page of local (and not-so-local) newspapers: ‘DEAD MAN DISAPPEARS FROM HOSPITAL BED.’ The press, along with a certain degree of medical knowledge, had blamed it on Lazarus Syndrome, which of course the Winchesters couldn’t resist chuckling at, knowing the truth about what happened. Some even recognised him from the duo that had been arrested and supposedly died a couple of years ago. The hype died down after a few weeks with no sign of the ‘dead man’, and Dean’s story simply drifted into the background, awarded with a small article in the back few pages as a maximum. But the public were entirely unaware of the events that were truly happening to their ‘fugitive’…  
“Hey, Bobby.”  
“Hi.” Sam and Dean both greeted their adoptive father respectively; however no embraces were traded this time since Bobby was terribly eager to hear their account of what had happened. When they had retold their story, each brother filling in the gaps for one another of the events that had occurred when they weren’t together, Bobby sat back in his chair and spoke his opinion, as always.  
“You idjits should really stop lying to each other, ya know. It’ll be the death of you some day.” Shaking his head in bewilderment as to how stupid his boys could be sometimes, but with a hint of relief being revealed in his expression at knowing they weren’t currently disadvantaged because of it, the old hunter sighed. “Well, at least you’re safe.” He concluded, strolling over to the fridge to retrieve a couple of beers for them.  
“Wait, so you’re not angry?” Dean was vaguely surprised, as he knew that Bobby was generally short-tempered and often snapped at them, but only because he cared about them so much.   
“Course, I’m silently wanting to kick your sorry butts for lying to each other and, more importantly, me. But, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, we have more pressing matters at hand. Ya know, saving the damn world? And I’m telling ya – you’re damn lucky you have that angel to look out for ya, or you’d be completely screwed. But, here you are, so how can I complain?” At that, Dean shrugged in half-agreement and approval, glancing at Sam, who also appeared to be reassured and thankful for Bobby’s general I’ll-always-be-here-for-you vibe. The boys both accepted the bottles of beer; Dean unscrewed the top before taking a swig in a matter of seconds, whereas Sam took a little more time and care, struggling slightly with the bottle top and only sipping at the alcoholic beverage. After a moment of the small family enjoying the refreshments in a comfortable silence, the old hunter spoke.  
“Son, I gotta ask – why didn’t you tell us, Dean? He was clearly torturing you, we could have helped much sooner. I know John could be a controlling douche, but-”  
“Okay, okay.” Dean interrupted, cutting off Bobby before the conversation got too personal. “So, my dead dad comes back as a ghost, helps us with cases at first, then starts mentally and physically damaging me. You can understand why I was a little spooked and didn’t tell you guys. Sue me.” The older brother conveyed his light-hearted and distantly entertaining persona through his speech, refusing to get all emotional again. Instead of pursuing the matter, Bobby and Sam simply accepted that response and neglected to ask any more intrusive questions. They all knew each other too well, therefore knew better than to pry too deeply into delicate affairs. Bobby tactfully changed the subject.  
“Well thankfully I’m up to date now with you boys, so I guess we can get on with stopping Lilith from breaking all the seals. I dug up some more lore, so you can have a breeze through that while I try find something more worthwhile through research. This whole stopping the Apocalypse thing sure is a handful, and then some…”  
After a few more hours of collective research and ‘breezing through the books’, Dean declared he was tired, due to missing out on almost a week of sleep, apart from when he was unconscious (and dead), therefore retired to a spare bedroom upstairs that Bobby kept made up for them in case the boys required a rest. The wooden, well-trod stairs creaked ominously as he ascended the staircase, sounding vaguely like the screams of some kinds of monsters that he hunts when they perceive the blade or gun or whatever the hell it is that brings about their demise hovering in front of them just before the slice or shot of finality and inevitability echoes through the dark atmosphere. On entering the slightly dust-covered room, Dean gently shut the door and crashed out on the bed. The quilt and mattress were both surprisingly comfortable, enveloping the young hunter in rare peace and pleasantly tangible, supple velvet. He didn’t even bother to climb under the sheets; he was snug enough. Just as Dean began to drift away on the cloud of ignorant bliss, he heard a faint giggle. Being a hunter, creepy noises in the middle of the night set him more on edge than more pacifistic citizens, therefore he warily opened an eye, suspiciously glancing around the darkened room from where he laid. However, nothing was out of the ordinary. A moment later, after Dean had sleepily shut his eyes again, the giggling resumed. It wasn’t a child’s laughter, or even that of a girl. It sounded like a man. A familiar man.   
This time, Dean sat up at the exact same as his eyelids flew open, and saw someone he had been sure he would never see again, only in nightmares or when reliving infrequent happy childhood memories. This time, the man stood at his bedside was not a dream, or even a ghost. This time, it appeared to be a real person. His dad.  
“Hello, Dean. Did you miss me?” John’s eerie voice echoed through every corner of Dean’s mind, reverberating through his skull and striking intense fear and confusion into his chest. The older Winchester boy knew that his ‘dad’ wasn’t real; he knew he must be hallucinating from lack of sleep or something ridiculous that was part of his stressful life as a hunter, yet that didn’t quell his utter terror one bit. Instead, his eyes simply widened as he silently scuttled backwards on his bed so that his back was forcibly attached to the wall as he stared in utter shock at his the disconcertingly realistic figure before him. Fortunately, this time John appeared to have no supernatural powers, therefore was unable to cause Dean any physical harm, however it was evident that the extent of the mental damage inflicted upon the young hunter when being visited by the spirit of his dead father was far more than initially thought; perhaps this wasn’t something he could just wash away with excessive alcohol or hunting trips. Perhaps the floodgates that keep inevitable insanity closed in finally breaking was something far worse than ever anticipated.   
“You’re-you’re not real…” Dean stammered, addressing the hallucination with a false confidence. It was obvious he barely believed his own words. Seeking out and latching onto that vulnerability, ‘John’ erupted into malicious laughter which resonated throughout Dean’s mind, causing the sound to be all the more sinister. Once the spine-chilling chuckling had ceased, Dean’s father responded with a purely manipulative and vaguely sarcastic comment.  
“Am I not? Sorry, I must be mistaken. I’ll leave you alone then. Bye.” At that, ‘John’ promptly disappeared. For one moment, the Winchester boy sat in silence and stupidly let himself believe that it was over, that it was just a nightmare – albeit an extremely strange and slightly disturbing nightmare, but just a nightmare all the same. Instead, his new nemesis (his personal demon) reappeared right next to him a couple of seconds later, giggling creepily once again at his son’s naivety.   
“No… No!” Dean muttered to himself, shaking his head as if that action alone would somehow rid him of his hallucination. He briefly tried to find an option to escape this terror – he figured that real-life pain would probably temporarily get rid of ‘John’, since it would allow him to liberate himself from being locked inside his own mind and snap him back to reality and what is truly real; however he had no injuries that could make that plan possible. Cas had fully healed him when he brought him back. He saw no way out.  
By this time, ‘John’ had begun taunting him verbally again. The most terrifying thing about Dean’s hallucination speaking to him wasn’t what he was saying; it was the fact that it sounded exactly like his father. It sounded no different to how he remembered John when he was alive. Yet it was obvious that it wasn’t really his dad speaking since his tone was so eerie and harsh, the poisonous words flowing from his mouth cutting and offensive. Dean knew that John would never have said such things if he was living.   
“Why don’t you have a nice sleep, hm? You must be tired… Here, I’ll help-” The hallucination laid an ice-cold hand that felt so real it was scary on Dean’s forehead, pushing him down so that he was lying down fully on the bed as it spoke in a frighteningly soft voice. The young hunter struggled under ‘John’s’ grip, frantically trying to slip from under his icy grasp, yet was unsuccessful. Eventually, Dean relaxed and, to his surprise, actually fell asleep immediately. A minute later, a vivid dream pierced through his slumber and hit him like a ton of bricks. It began as a memory of early 2006, when he and his little brother were in the arbitrary secluded cabin along with their father, when they were running and hiding from demons after their run-in with and exorcism of Meg. Shortly after, they discovered that John was possessed by Azazel, and the dream was generally accurate as to the actual events that had occurred at the time: Azazel almost murdering Dean with his telekinetic and biokinetic powers; Sam shooting him in the shoulder with the Colt, then refusing to make a kill shot; John regaining control of his body and begging his youngest son to shoot him while Dean pleaded with him to do the opposite; Azazel finally smoking out therefore escaping. But before the nightmare could end, an unnerving voice snaked through the freeze-framed scene.  
“This is why you’re weak, Dean…” It whispered cruelly. “You allowed yourself to be near-killed by that demon, and then wouldn’t let your brother kill it when you had the perfect opportunity… How pathetic can you get?” This was followed by yet more laughter, mocking Dean as he hauled himself out of unconsciousness, fighting for air as he realised he had been holding his breath in fear during his nightmare, especially when he heard the voice again. He knew who it was. He had grown up with that voice for twenty-seven years; it was unlikely he’d ever forget its previously comforting yet recently malevolent tone. As the young hunter awoke, he discovered his torturous experience was not over yet. In the corner of the room remained ‘John’, his cackling noises echoing and unrelenting; in fact, the apparent joy of the hallucination grew all the more intense when it noticed Dean’s face with utter horror written all over it, cowering in the other corner of the room.   
“Crazy… I’m going crazy.” The Winchester stated to himself as he felt tears of terror prick at his usually-bright green eyes. It was a fact that he knew was true; he was seeing his dead dad, and not as a spirit, that he knew did exist. He was seeing him as a hallucination. That piece of information felt like it had been torn into many tiny particles of acid that was now raining down on him in his petrified state. Each time he realised his state of pure insanity, it stung like hell.   
***  
Probably one of the worst things that could possibly happen to a human being is the loss of one’s mind. Even when the whole world is changing at an unattainable rate, the human mind is the one constant that one can always rely on, without fail. And when that is gone, being unable to have anything left that one can trust, to be in a permanent state of wondering what is real and what is merely a cruel illusion, must be the most terrifying thing in the entirety of that human’s existence; of any human’s existence, for that matter.   
So when Dean Winchester discovered that he was losing his mind, unwillingly set on a long and agonisingly dangerous (and certainly exhausting) path of imminent insanity, it completely broke him. The young and still fairly innocent hunter remained curled up into a tight ball on the floor of the spare room in the house of his adoptive father – ironically the safest place he could be. His madness had reduced him to a scared little boy, recoiling from his hallucinations, and eventually, what was actually real, as he could not tell the difference. All night he had been that way, barely coping with his visions of John as it constantly spoke to and irritated him. Every time Dean had tried to sleep, or just fallen asleep because he was so tired he could no longer keep his drooping eyelids open, he was plagued by nightmares in which his father always had a role. Each restless toss and turn of his head seemed to amplify ‘John’s’ giggles all the more, causing his already obscene level discomfort to rise ever further.   
When morning dawned (not that the young Winchester noticed – he was far too wrapped up in his own insanity to care for the time of day), Dean could be found with his arms wrapped around his knees sat on the floor, rocking himself back and forth as a display of sheer instability. It was 5am, around the time that Bobby and most hunters began their day. That was, of course, if they had slept at all, which the old hunter and Sam had, for once, thinking that his older brother was resting too. It was fairly obvious that was not the case when the younger Winchester brother knocked at the door, and when Dean didn’t answer – he assumed it was yet another trick of his mind – Sam barged right in. On seeing the state of his big brother, the hunter practically stumbled over his own feet in order to get to him as soon as possible.  
“Dean? DEAN!” He exclaimed fearfully, standing tall above his brother’s hunched figure and placing his hands on Dean’s shoulders in a pretty pathetic attempt at comfort. “Dean, what’s wrong? Why are you on the floor? Here, let me-” Sam fussed over his brother, as per usual, as he helped lift him onto the bed, where he sat, shivering. It wasn’t so much to do with the cold (it was now the end of April, after all); it was more a nervous aftermath of his ordeal. ‘John’ wasn’t actually in the room currently – he had left for the time being, soon to return, no doubt, with yet more torture in store. But for the moment, Dean savoured his time alone with Sammy, without interruptions from his crazy brain.  
“Sammy… I’m so glad you’re-” Dean quickly cut himself off, reluctant to get sentimental. Although his mind may have neglected him, his obstinateness remained ever strong. “It’s Dad, Sam. I’m seeing him all the time. He won’t go away and I think I’m going crazy and I don’t know what to do, Sammy. Please, just…” Trailing off, the older Winchester had to take a breath to keep his tears back before he could continue. “I need help. Please, Sam. I don’t know what’s happening to me.” His pleading sounded exactly like that of a child when asking for help with their homework when they don’t understand the work at all and wish to get good grades. Sam pulled a sympathetic expression and persisted in reassuring his brother.   
“It’s okay, Dean. We’ll work it out and get you sorted. Thing is, you’ll probably die anyway. From lack of sleep, or a heart attack, or maybe even a demon, since you’re so pitifully vulnerable.” Dean turned to face his brother with a completely shocked expression, unable to comprehend how he could say such cruel things. However, when Sam turned to face him back, a grin plastered across his smug face, his entire form rippled and melted away to reveal his father once again with the same purely evil smile. Leaping off the bed, Dean gasped and shrunk against the wall while a feeling of utter hopelessness and depression sank and anchored itself into his stomach. He was never going to escape this. His hallucinations, his insanity… It was all a bottomless pit into which he had helplessly fallen and now there was no way out. The only thing the young hunter could think of right now was to head downstairs and try to find Bobby and Sam; the real ones, if he could. He needed to tell them both what he had confessed to his hallucination of Sam, and maybe they could help. It was a long shot, but one he was willing to take.   
Hesitantly creeping out of the corridor, ignoring ‘John’s’ persistent taunting (“Aww, that little sharing and caring session there was truly adorable…” was what he was saying at the moment), Dean glanced down the stairs, keeping his ears and eyes open to any action. He spotted none so far, however he did hear the sound of someone shuffling about coming from the general direction of the kitchen. He figured it was Bobby preparing a measly breakfast, as he was always the one to look after the boys, in hunting and the domestic side of life. A second later, Dean heard the gruff and surly voice of his adoptive father.  
“Sam. Grab the phone, would ya? I should probably check up on Rufus. That is, if the idjit hasn’t got himself killed already.” Shortly after, Sam’s voice piped up in reply, and Dean observed from out of sight at the top of the stairs as his little brother strolled out of one room to grab a gun he had left around before heading back into the kitchen after Bobby.   
“Sure. Uh, what about Dean? Are we just gonna leave him in bed?” The youngest hunter of the house questioned, as inquisitive as always.  
“No, we’re gonna wake him up from his beauty sleep that he hasn’t had in goodness’ knows how long for no reason, since we have no leads whatsoever. Of course we’re gonna leave him!” Bobby replied is his usual sarcastic tone. Dean could almost hear his brother’s irritated expression in response.   
Realising that now was likely the best time to make an appearance, the hunter began a slow and steady trek downstairs as the ignored hallucination followed him, still making ridiculous and mocking comments. As soon as Dean began to approach the kitchen door, he quickened his pace and attempted to put a false spring in his step in order to reassure his family and deceive them into thinking he wasn’t quite as depressed about the whole situation as he actually was when he finally told them.   
“Morning, sleeping beauty. I would offer you some eggs, but we haven’t got any, so it’ll have to be porridge or nothing.” Bobby greeted on seeing his arrival. Dean kept silent, which told everyone in the room that something was wrong; he always had a smart comment to make, more so than Bobby, most of the time.   
“What’s going on, Dean?” Bobby asked suspiciously, refusing to sit down even when Dean gestured for him to, as stubborn as ever. Sam remained seated yet silent with an extremely concerned expression on his face, patiently waiting for his brother to go on. Dean himself stood nervously, his hands gripping the back of the other chair, unsure as to how exactly he was going to explain his situation. He decided to stay light-hearted as ever in order to not worry his folks, which wasn’t usually too difficult for him, but his current state of mind couldn’t really be referred to as ‘usual.’  
“Let’s just say… I think I’ve driven past the border into Crazy town.” The older Winchester brother stated as humouredly as possible. In response, Sam still looked as confused as ever while Bobby simply shook his head and spoke.  
“Could we have an English translation for that, please?” He replied with his omnipresent sarcasm and sass.   
“It’s ever since last night, when we got here after the hospital. I thought it was just the aftermath of Cas healing me or something, but it’s still happening.” While Dean began to narrate his tale, ‘John’ entered the room and spoke over him, saying things like “You always were a little tell-tale,” and “Little baby go run to daddy- Oh, I almost forget: he’s not your daddy.” Dean did his best to ignore him, purposely averting his gaze and staring at the ground or focusing on his family; the things that were definitely real. They, of course, were oblivious to the infuriating chatter of the hallucination, therefore continued the conversation as normal.   
“Okay, we’re getting there, but not quite. What does that mean?” Bobby resumed, vaguely irritated with Dean’s evasive way of explaining and determined to get to the full story as soon as possible.   
“I’m having a difficult time figuring out what’s real.” After finally confessing, Dean kept his head down for a moment, anxious to see Sam and Bobby’s reactions. A moment later, he realised he couldn’t put it off any longer therefore reluctantly raised his head and moved his gaze first to his adoptive father, who looked shocked yet accepting of the situation so that he could keep his judgement clear and sort it out quickly, then his little brother, who nodded slightly as if to say “Yeah… okay then, we can deal with that,” but was evidently barely holding it together.   
“Hallucinations.” Sam chimed in in a monotonous voice, determined not to reveal any emotion. “Of what?”  
“Of Dad.” Dean replied, equally bluntly, meeting his brother’s gaze so that they were staring right into each other’s eyes and explicitly maintaining poker faces.   
“Why didn’t you come downstairs and let us know instead of hiding it?” While the Winchesters were having their face-off, Bobby interrupted to ask a logical question so they could further their understanding of the terrifying yet approachable problem ahead of them.   
“I wasn’t hiding it, it only started after I went upstairs last night, and this is the first time I’ve seen you guys since then. And I didn’t want to bring it up, with all we have on our plates. You know, saving the damn world. Look, I just figured, try to hold onto the safety bar and ride it out. But it’s getting more specific.” Finally breaking his eye-contact with Sam, Dean desperately attempted to explain himself. Meanwhile, ‘John’ continued his taunting (“How do you know you’re even talking to real people? They could just be one of my illusions again…”).  
“Specific how?” Sam asked, genuinely curious and figuring it was a step on the way to finding out how to help his big brother and get rid of his hallucinations. He was glad the brothers generally kept their feelings secret or bottled up, because if they didn’t, he would be unable to put into words his pity and concern for Dean. He couldn’t begin to imagine what he was going through, but perhaps trying to could make the cure more achievable for them.  
“He… He talks to me, mostly saying how I’m weak or how I’ve failed you. Then when I try to sleep, I get these nightmares of stuff from years ago – when Dad was possessed by Yellow-Eyes and other rubbish from our past. I wake up, and there he is again.” Dean continued, unaware of what Sam was thinking. He was also almost failing to cover up his emotions, namely fear and depression; his elaborately patterned mask was slipping. Preying on something that his brother had just said, a thought occurred to Sam.  
“Wait, are you seeing him right now?” He asked, and Dean nodded, briefly glancing over to the doorway, where ‘John’ was perched and currently silent but with an innocently evil smile severing his face. He lifted up his hand and wiggled his fingers in a twisted wave, as if warning his son that he would be annoying him again sooner rather than later.   
“You know that he’s not real, right?” Sam attempted to reassure Dean, however the question was more a measure of how insane he truly was.  
“Hey, I may be crazy, but I sure as hell ain’t stupid.” The older brother retorted rudely, yet this actually comforted Sam; Dean’s sense of humour and even cockiness gave them all something to hold onto, and reassured the younger brother that Dean wasn’t entirely lost to them as of yet.  
“No need for the cheek, son. We’re only trying to help.” Bobby glared disapprovingly at the tone of his adopted son, but he wasn’t completely angry – there was a softness in his eyes that screamed his concern and unrelenting love for the kid.   
“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just relieved that I’m not totally, you know, cuckoo.” Nodding in agreement, Bobby and Sam were clearly thankful as well, if not more so than Dean. “So, uh, how are we gonna deal with the Apocalypse?”  
“Are you kidding me, boy? We’re getting you fixed first.” Bobby stated with a fierce determination, utterly bewildered at why on Earth Dean would want to ignore everything he just said about how mentally damaged he was.   
“It can wait for now, isn’t the end of the world more impor-”  
“Shhhh!” Interrupting harshly, Bobby held out a hand to silence Dean. It worked, however the older Winchester brother did look slightly put out. “We’ll sort something out, don’t you worry. Now, we ain’t checking you into a hospital – you know that always goes swimmingly – so I’d say our best bet is that angel of yours.” The old hunter laid out his plan clearly, glancing at the brothers to hear their verdict.  
“What – Cas? You think he could do that?” Gazing up at Dean, his eyes bright with hope, Sam spoke, inquiring after the angel’s abilities.   
“You seriously think that baby with wings can save you from this? Wow, you’re much more gullible than I thought…” ‘John’ piped up along with Sam, also staring at Dean, expecting an answer.  
“No idea. But it’s worth a shot.”  
“Okay well, uh, I think it’s best if Dean – you pray to him.” Sam gave Dean a pointed look, but the older brother barely heard him since ‘John’ was now humming ‘Cry Me a River’ extraordinarily loudly. However, he caught the general gist of what Sam was saying, therefore was still able to reply.  
“Why me?” As evasive as ever, Dean’s gaze flickered from Sam to Bobby, who exchanged a significant glance between them. Looking back at his brother, Sam spoke up again, a faint smile playing upon his lips.  
“Because he always turns up straight away every time you call.” At that comment, Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously and subconsciously scratched the back of his head while he stammered out a response.  
“Wha- Well, I… I have no idea what you’re implying by that, but-”  
“Oh, we’re not implying anything, son.” Bobby claimed, yet it was fairly obvious he was inferring quite the opposite. “Now get on with it, will ya? Time’s a-wasting.”  
“Of-of course.” Dean stuttered slightly; glad of the tactful change of subject that his adoptive father offered. However the unfamiliar and prickly sensation of awkwardness still crawled all over his skin as he sat down on the sofa in the living room and began to pray to his angel. “Castiel – we’re kind of desperate here and I, er- we need your help, so if you could get down here-” At that moment, a gentle flutter sounded from beside the sofa. Consequently, Bobby, Sam, but first of all Dean turned their heads around to face the somewhat dishevelled figure that had just appeared.   
“Hello Dean.” Castiel greeted in the only way he knew, his celestial blue eyes staring deep into Dean’s forest green ones. The hunter tore his eyes away from his face for a few seconds in order to drag his gaze up and down the angel’s body, drinking in even the most miniscule of details: his fresh snow-white shirt, his ever-backwards tie smothered in a royal blue fabric, his deep chocolate hair with its characteristic tufts sticking up almost comically in various places, and finally, his tan trench coat that was vaguely darkened from the turmoil through which it had been dragged, yet generally in pristine condition. When he spoke, his inhumanly deep and gravelly voice washed over Dean, its soothing tone massaging him and causing him to feel better instantly; however, as soon as his mood began to lighten slightly, the Winchester would notice his hallucination again. As he reluctantly averted his gaze from Castiel, Dean watched ‘John’ pull out a chair from the desk across the room and perch on the very edge of it, his back ramrod straight as his eyes bored into his son in a frightening fashion. Dean clearly observing something that the others could not see did not go amiss in the angel’s eyes – when he studied his dear friend’s condition, the space between his eyebrows creased and the corners of his mouth turned down in an evident frown. Being a celestial creature, Castiel could sense human emotion, and the intensely negative feelings that come as a side-effect of insanity stuck out like a sore thumb; Dean’s emotions practically radiated from him, a neon sign for the truly terrible state he was in. The angel could also sense the emotions belonging to Sam and Bobby, which were primarily worry, with a fiercely strong sense of determination emanating from the old hunter in particular. Due to his silence, all occupants of Bobby’s house turned to face him, eagerly yet anxiously anticipating an answer which Castiel was naturally reluctant to tell them. But he knew he had to. Sighing as he switched his gaze from Bobby to Sam and finally back to Dean, where it would stay for a long while, the angel delivered his verdict.  
“I confess, I’ve been monitoring your condition for a while, Dean. But I never thought it was this bad.” Castiel’s facial expression showed profound concern for his friend as he continued to stare into Dean’s eyes. However, the older Winchester brother’s features soon became clouded with anger as he acknowledged the subtext of the angel’s comment.  
“Wait – you mean to tell me you knew about this? And it didn’t ever cross your mind that maybe it was a good idea to fly down here and help me?” Breaking eye contact with Cas, Dean’s words were tinted with betrayal and disbelief as well as fury at his so-called friend. This immediately made Castiel feel guilty, despite the fact that he usually remained an emotionless plank. In response, he jumped to his own defence when attempting to explain himself.  
“Dean, I’m sorry. As I previously stated, I had no idea as to the true extent of your condition. I am not entirely sure if I can-”  
“Well what can you do?” Dean interrupted, giving off a vibe of not really caring what the angel had to say, yet secretly forgiving him, knowing he likely had a lot on his plate already. He simply urged the conversation to move forward so they could find a solution to his insanity quickly, before his hallucinations could get any worse; ‘John’ beginning to taunt him again (“Oooh, who’s this – your boyfriend? Some boyfriend, huh. He can’t even do anything,”) stimulated this thought.  
“I can do a reading of your current mental state and then take it from there, but I’m still not sure I-” Before Cas could go on describing the consequences and negative opinions of his supposed help could possibly not work, Dean chimed in again, his statement dripping with finality.  
“Do it.” At that, Castiel hesitated for a moment, and then placed a soft hand on the top of the hunter’s head, so that his palm was covering his forehead and his slender fingers spread out through his thick, partially spiked-up hair. No light erupted from the point of contact between them this time, however Castiel’s face scrunched up and his eyes closed in intense concentration, proving that something was going on, that Cas could definitely see inside Dean’s mind and study the damage done. When he had finished, he stumbled backward momentarily and gasped, his eyes flying open, wide with shock and perturbation.   
“Cas?” Sam was the only one brave enough to say anything or question what was going on, as everyone else was stood (or sat) still in a stunned silence, Dean most of all. After a moment, the angel recovered enough to state the facts of the situation.  
“This- this isn’t good…” He claimed ominously.  
“Care to elaborate?” Bobby asked, putting on a sarcastic and fairly irritated front, yet obviously deeply fearful for Dean’s safety.   
“Dean, your mental state is in an extremely bad condition – your hallucinations must be… truly terrifying. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.” Dean couldn’t stand the look of utter pity on Castiel’s face – it didn’t suit him. Therefore, before he could carry on feeling sorry for him, the hunter dismissed his words and changed the subject… slightly.  
“Yeah, yeah, forget the sympathy. Can you help or not?” In the moment of silence following his question, the angel and the human exchanged a glance in which they both realised there was nothing they could do to help him. But for Sam and Bobby and conversation’s sake, Castiel replied anyway.  
“I’m sorry, Dean. Something this intense, this absolute… Even an angel of the Lord cannot heal this. In normal circumstances, I could shift your insanity onto myself-”   
“No way.” Dean’s stubborn nature and eternal protective instinct towards those who were close to him kicked in as he completely disregarded the angel’s suggestion, almost without thinking. Knowing he couldn’t change Dean’s mind and also continuing his initial explanation, Castiel carried on what he was saying, practically ignoring the hunter.  
“- but these circumstances are far from normal. I’m afraid your hallucinations are too personal and would not mean a thing to me, therefore would latch onto your brain if I tried to shift them. This is something you are going to have to overcome yourself.” At those final words, the angel disappeared, following one last and longing glance at Dean, seemingly apologetic. Castiel’s sudden departure made the older Winchester all the more infuriated, therefore he leapt up from his seat and began yelling at thin air in order to vent his anger.  
“IS THAT IT? IS THAT ALL YOU’RE GONNA SAY? DAMN SON OF A B-”  
“Dean, calm down. You heard him – he can’t help you. But we can. We’ll get you through this, Dean, don’t worry.” Sam placed both his hands on his brother’s shoulders, giving him such a look that Dean realised he was only humiliating himself. So the hunter simply punched the air in a last burst of rage, then collapsed back down on the sofa in defeat. His last chance at normalcy and retrieving his sanity had been blown out of the water, and he was fresh out of options. The last thing Dean saw before he closed his eyes in exhaustion was ‘John’, grinning in triumph at his son’s utter deflation.  
In order to cool off and get some fresh air, Dean headed outside, making sure to urge his brother and adoptive father not to follow him. The gloomy weather greeted him by having steely-grey clouds spatter his face offensively; despite the fact that it was currently mid-spring, there seemed to be a winter-esque chill in the air that bit into the hunter’s thick skin, invasive and unwanted.  
Back in Bobby’s living room, Bobby and Sam exchanged concerned yet defeated looks, at a complete loss as to what they could possibly do to help the man to which they both held dear. They despised seeing him the way he was, his eyes being open yet his senses shut off. So that they weren’t fully depressed and put down, Bobby attempted to lighten the mood.  
“Well, at least he ain’t gone completely John Nash on us yet.” However, this comment seemed to upset Sam even more, as it inferred his brother was going to lose the entirety of his mind soon enough.   
Meanwhile, ‘John’ had appeared outside again before Dean, and now that he was alone, his tone got more vicious, his words more spiteful. He trailed closely behind as the hunter paced up and down the car salvage yard, his head down and his breaths short and sharp, implying a rapidly developing panic attack. Every time Dean paused to turn around, ‘John’ was stood right in front of him, leaving him no personal space in his successful attempt at intimidating him. The hallucination’s talkative mood had fired up once again; his willingness to mock him seemed to be fuelled by Dean’s fear, and since that was at an all-time high, he wouldn’t shut up.  
“Honestly… You’re giving up this easily? I mean, I know you’re weak, and pathetic, and generally a failure, but I have to say, son, I expected a bit more… resistance.”   
“I’m not your son. You’re not my dad. You’re not real.” Dean began reiterating the aforementioned phrases in order to bring him back to reality and potentially get rid of his hallucination; however, ‘John’ remained there, his form as strong as ever, laughing in his face to rub in the fact that he couldn’t get rid of him. It appeared he was there to stay.   
“I ain’t leaving, Dean. I am inside your mind! There is no way to separate me from your surroundings. So you better saddle up, because you’re in for a bumpy ride…” At that, his father disappeared, only to reappear behind a car on the left of Dean, almost as a terrible pun relating to what he just said. Finally at breaking point, and generally sick of the sound of his dad’s voice, Dean began to run. He ran far, and he ran fast. As he sprinted like a gazelle, only somewhat less graceful, weaving and ducking between the vehicles in various states of dilapidation, ‘John’ pursed him, appearing behind cars or between cars. The sound of his malicious chuckling echoed through Dean’s head in a mocking fashion, eerie and transparent, audible in every step he took, every raindrop that tainted his skin. Just when Dean thought he had lost him, as he had reached the far right side of the car lot, he heard an almost inaudible tap on some glass beside him. Crouching down, he peered into the side back window of a newly renovated van. At first, he couldn’t see anything, only the dust-smothered and stained seat that Bobby clearly hadn’t finished vacuuming. Then, as Dean leaned in closer, his nose almost touching the glass, ‘John’s’ face jumped out at him, causing the usually unperturbed hunter to leap a few metres backwards in shock. On perceiving how utterly petrified his son was, the hallucination cackled menacingly yet amusedly, waving innocently through the pane of glass.   
Turning back the way he came, preparing to dash off again, as his flight instinct rather than fight seemed to take hold when faced with his insane illusions, Dean ran straight into his brother. Expecting it to be ‘John’ again, he made a sharp noise of exclamation and started sprinting in the opposite direction before Sam grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and shook him fiercely in order to snap him back to reality. However, what was obviously his brother soon morphed into ‘John’ again, giggling hysterically in his face and jabbering on at him.  
“You’re a failure, Dean – a disappointment. You’re never going to survive this. And do you know why? Because you’re weak, Dean…”  
“Dean…”  
“DEAN!” Sam yelled at his brother, desperately trying to get through to him, but he was far gone. He could see that Dean was staring directly into his eyes, yet seeing nothing but hallucinations, fake things that were clearly terrifying to him, but not real. As his green eyes widened, giving an undeniably crazy look to his face, he began to shout back at ‘Sam’, or rather ‘John.’  
“NO! No… I’m not weak! I always did everything you told me! So if that’s being weak, then it’s your fault! You can go to hell!” At that point, Dean started throwing punches, flinging out his arms in all directions, some of them glancing off his brother, but mostly harmlessly hitting the air.   
“Bobby? BOBBY! A LITTLE HELP HERE!” As Sam shouted for aid, the old hunter stepped forward hastily and somehow managed to grab hold of both of Dean’s powerful yet reckless arms and pin them behind him. The older brother still didn’t give up struggling; however, he persisted in yelling at nothing, his eyes wild and his expression disturbingly furious.  
“What now?” Bobby inquired, looking helpless and out of ideas, but his question was soon answered by a forceful punch from the younger Winchester that struck his brother square in the face, causing him to finally go limp in the arms of his adoptive father.   
“That should do it.” Sam stated as he picked up Dean’s legs and helped carry him back inside, yet hesitated when he saw Bobby’s bewildered expression.  
“What the hell was that?” The old hunter asked, still vaguely surprised and more than a little unnerved.  
“Did you seriously think he was gonna calm down?” When Bobby didn’t respond, Sam went on, no empathy detectable in his voice. The old hunter supposed that was the kid’s way of dealing with the situation from here on in. “That’s the only way to deal with him when he’s like that. Come on, let’s get him inside.” And thus, the younger Winchester and only remaining Singer hauled Dean back inside and up the stairs before dumping him in a rather undignified way onto the bed in the spare room, partially covering him with an old blanket for when he awoke. It was likely he would be out for a long while after the overkill punch Sam had dealt him.  
***  
The boy found himself in an abandoned town, litter strewn across the rain-slickened pavement. Boarded-up shops surrounded him, street lamps flickering. An arbitrary neon sign hanging limply outside of a dilapidated diner glared oppressively at him, the pure intensity of its stare boring into his skull. There didn’t seem to be any sort of organised direction to the road down which he stumbled, only silent chaos. He wandered around, endlessly searching for his missing brother. Every time he called out for him, his voice conveniently ceased to work; in fact, all of his senses had neglected him, causing him to be utterly disorientated. The only thought in his mind was that he had to find his brother. That was all that mattered.   
Staggering around the street corner into a darkened backstreet, he found himself in front of the back entrance of a church. An odd sound, extremely out of place, emanated from inside the door, which was hanging open, its hinges completely busted. It was a wailing of sorts, but not quite as extreme – more like pained groaning. It was as if someone was dying in there. His feet began moving forward of their own accord, almost as if he were in a trance. He was well aware that what he was moving towards was likely something he didn’t want to see; the gripping sensation in his stomach told him as much. However, he couldn’t stop it. His curiosity and inability to control his movement had taken hold.  
As he approached the front of the church, he still hadn’t spotted anything perturbing. However, his tunnel vision had prevented him from seeing most of the church, therefore he decided to backtrack. His head whipped from side to side, reflecting his hasty glances between the pews. When he was around halfway down the aisle, a huddled figure caught his eye. It was clearly that what was emitting the excruciating noise.  
Hesitantly advancing towards the man (it was now evident that was who it was), he nudged him slightly, coaxing him from his foetal position. To his horror, when the man rolled over, it was revealed to be his brother. Sam Winchester lay in his brother’s shocked arms, a deep wound drawn in red across his stomach; however, the actual injury couldn’t be seen, only the crimson seeping through onto his t-shirt. The flower of blood expanded, blooming into thrice the size of a rose.   
“No… No.” Dean muttered in disbelief, his hand firmly affixed to his brother’s face in an attempt to comfort him in what were evidently his last moments. Sam himself was unable to speak to his brother, aside from moaning in agony, yet his eyes revealed everything – fear, betrayal, colossal pain. Just when Dean felt his brother’s life slip away, another familiar voice called to him.  
“It’s your fault, Dean… You were supposed to save him, and you can’t even do that…”  
Dean’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, smothered in sweat and gasping for breath as if he hadn’t inhaled in a few minutes, which he probably hadn’t while he was dreaming. It took a moment for him to get his bearings, but when he did, he realised he was back in Bobby’s spare bedroom again. He was currently sat on top of the sheets and quilt, yet a severely twisted blanket was wrapped around his legs; Dean assumed someone had placed it there while he was sleeping. Which posed the question: why had he been sleeping? When he checked the clock, it was around 4:30pm, so he wouldn’t normally be resting at that time, or any time, for that matter. Then, rather abruptly, his recent memories came flooding back; discovering that Cas was unable to help him, John following him in the car lot outside, freaking out, and then… Sam. He’d punched him to knock him out of his psychotic episode, clearly. I’ll get him back for that, Dean thought, yet it was a half-hearted threat – he knew he was in too much of a bad state, plus he never intentionally punched Sam. Except for when he took the Impala, or was generally out of control.   
For a moment, Dean thought his nightmare was simply the aftermath of his insanity, that his… episode… outside earlier had been the pivotal moment to rid him of his hallucinations. However, it wasn’t long before he saw John again, standing in the corner of the room and speaking.  
“Well would you look at that! Sleeping Beauty is finally awake. Now, shall we continue our conversation? I believe your overactive mind woke you up so I couldn’t talk to you in your dreams anymore – but it’s much more fun out here anyway.” The most intense sinking feeling was produced in Dean’s stomach as he realised there was no getting away from this. John carried on regardless, clearly loving the sound of his own voice. “The thing is, we need to talk about Sammy. I don’t know if you remember, but before I died – which I still blame you for, by the way – I told you that you had to save Sam, or you’d have to kill him. And it sure doesn’t look like you’ve saved him to me.”  
“Wha… What are you talking about?” Dean asked, exhausted and sick of John talking. He figured that if he spoke back, maybe he’d shut up a little sooner. It was a logical plan, but at the time, Dean had no idea that it was the worst thing he could have possibly done. However, it was the only way he was to react, since he was tired, and also curious about what his dad had to say about Sam.   
“He’s still drinking gallons of demon blood. You’re seriously telling me you haven’t noticed?” John went on, his tone extremely patronising, just like when he was a spirit, or even when he was alive at times.  
“Yes, I’ve noticed! You son of a-”  
“Watch your tone with me, boy.” John’s voice suddenly got much darker as he appeared right in front of Dean, looming over him with a glare that could kill a child on sight. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you. If you’d have saved him, things could have been just fine. I probably wouldn’t have come back as a vengeful spirit- well, okay, yes I might have, but definitely not as angry. Then you’d have no hallucinations either. But no. You had to screw things up, like the pathetic child you are.”  
“If I can find a way to save him, then I will but-”  
“I don’t think you understand me.” John interrupted once again. “There’s no saving your brother now. He’s gone far past being saved.” As those words sunk in, Dean’s feeling of dread became somewhat more profound. He still believed that Sam could redeem himself, kick the demon blood. They would just have to find another way. But when John spoke with such finality, he knew exactly what he was implying, if he was still going by what he said before. However, he asked anyway.  
“What do you mean?” Dean’s voice shook with anticipation and anxiety. He knew what was coming next.  
“You know how it goes. If you can’t save him, which you can’t…”  
“No.” Dean realised he wasn’t ready to hear it. Despite having heard many vile and terrible things spew out of his father’s mouth, this was one he just wasn’t ever going to be ready to hear. Tasting his son’s denial and fear, John smiled slightly and changed his choice of words.  
“You might not think it, but it’s something you’re gonna have to do. And I think you’d prefer it sooner rather than later, when he’s tried to kill you himself.”  
Dean’s initial reaction was immediate refusal. The thought of his little brother dying was terrible enough (since he had witnessed him die once already), but the thought of him killing him personally? That was downright unbearable. Of course he was well aware that Sam’s demon blood addiction was out of control, that he was far off the reservation, far from human by now. But he still had faith in him. He would never, ever give up on his baby brother – it was his job to protect him, it always had been and always would be. Even if Sam was scaring him with the things he could do to demons, and knew it had to be stopped, there was no way on Earth he would go so far as to kill him because of it. Especially when it was a hallucination telling him to.   
As all these thoughts of fear and denial and pointless willpower ran through Dean’s mind, John lingered about, pacing around the room, circling his son like a vulture ready to strike and take down his prey. However, he kept silent, his dulled grey eyes fixed on Dean as he awaited his response with a nervous excitement. Eventually, John’s patience ran out and he nagged him for an answer.  
“So, what’s it gonna be, Dean? You do want Sam to be saved, don’t you? This is the only way now…” His father goaded him, an awful sneer pasted on his face when he saw the hope and determination slide off of Dean’s face the more he considered his limited options. The hunter’s deep down realisation that he would have to listen to his dad and kill his own brother to save them all was gradually surfacing, slowly but surely. However, for the moment he was still in denial.  
“Just shut up for one second, alright? I don’t care what you say, there’s no way I’m going to…” Dean trailed off, since he still couldn’t bring himself to actually say ‘kill my brother.’ Instead, he changed the direction of his sentence. “Sammy means the world to me – I’m gonna find a way to save him.” Yet it was evident by his tone that he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.  
“Keep telling yourself that, boy. But I think we both know what you have to do.” At that, John vanished, leaving Dean to make his own decision, however the seed of doubt had already been planted in his easily influenced mind. Family was the only thing that could stop the hunter from being stubborn and introduce him to another option when times were desperate, particularly John. After all, you can’t kill an idea, not once it’s made a home right in the centre of your mind.   
Sighing, Dean swung his legs down off the bed and stood up straight. His feet drove him forwards, out of the room, down the stairs, along the corridor and into the living room. Through the double doors that led into the kitchen from the living room, he could see his little brother. Sam was turned away from him, so that he could only see a blue and white plaid shirt stretched over broad shoulders and long yet neatly groomed brown hair perched on top, yet Dean could tell that he was messing with his guns and ammo – he was likely cleaning and reloading them, out of habit more than anything else. As the older Winchester observed his movement, he reconsidered what he was about to do. He knew that his actions were driven by his insanity and pure longing for his father to leave him alone, so he could get on with his life and maybe get his mind back again, but that didn’t make what he was about to do any less wrong. On the other hand, he was ultimately going to help his brother, save him from hurting anyone and also himself; who knew what else the demon blood was doing to him while intoxicating him?   
Eventually, Dean simply couldn’t think about it anymore. He was tired, so tired. Utterly sick and tired of overthinking things. Therefore, the hunter separated himself from his emotions (which proved to be far easier than expected – his insanity was clearly affecting him in ways he hadn’t previously known) and advanced towards Sammy. Just as he was leaving the living room, Dean picked up the demon knife that his brother had recklessly left lying around and concealed it behind his back. On entering the kitchen, he slowly brought the blade in front of him, grasping the handle with his right hand, so that the serrated metal was pointing away from him. Sam still hadn’t noticed his presence, therefore was completely oblivious as to what Dean was about to do.  
“I’m sorry, Sammy. I have to do this.” The older brother spoke softly, almost so that Sam couldn’t hear him, but he had felt compelled to say some final words before he did what he had to. However, the younger Winchester did hear him, and spun around the second he realised he was there.  
“Dean! What do you mean- What are you doing, Dean?” Sam’s tone went from surprised, to confused, to alarmed in a couple of seconds. Then, as soon as he noticed the blade that Dean was flourishing, he grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and slammed him violently against the wall, the knife clattering to the floor noisily. Judging by the disturbing glint in his brother’s eyes, Sam realised they were both in trouble; it was obvious Dean was trying to harm him, if not kill, and that in itself proved that his mind had finally gone completely, making him a danger to himself. But the younger brother wasn’t going to give up on him yet –he had to try to bring him round.   
“Dean, whatever you’re trying to do, you don’t want to do it.” His tone was dangerously urgent as he stared directly into Dean’s eyes, frantically attempting to talk him out of what he was doing. The wild green eyes of the other brother wouldn’t meet Sam’s gaze; instead, they swivelled around the room, looking everywhere but his brother’s eyes.  
“Look at me!” Sam yelled to get his attention. He knew he only had one shot at this – if he said one wrong word, it was over. Dean’s eyes finally snapped back to Sam’s eyes, looking lost yet determined. “Dad isn’t real, so whatever he’s telling you to do, don’t do it. You hear me? You can fight this, Dean. This isn’t you.” Unfortunately, this seemed to upset Dean even more, and he gained control by swinging around and pinning Sam against the wall instead. The tables had turned, and not in a good way.   
“I don’t want to do this, Sammy. But I have to be loyal to Dad. I can’t let him down, not again. I’m sorry.” While Dean was saying those final words, he pulled out a gun from behind him that he had managed to grab off the counter while they had been struggling a moment ago. As he undid the safety catch with a soft click and aimed it at Sam’s head, a footstep sounded from close behind. Dean tried to turn around, but the last thing he saw was his little brother’s pleading eyes before everything faded to black and he felt the floor fly up to greet him.  
Once Dean had crumpled to the ground, Sam found himself staring at Bobby, who was holding a frying pan and looking extremely anxious. The image would have been comical, if the circumstances weren’t so serious. The younger Winchester was saturated with shock, therefore temporarily rendered mute as he switched his gaze from Dean, to Bobby, and back to Dean several times; he was utterly uncomprehending of what had just happened. After all, he’d witnessed his big brother try to murder him and then get whacked over the head with a frying pan by their adoptive father in less than a minute – he was bound to feel bewildered.   
“Alright, let’s get your brother sorted out.” Bobby’s voice cut through Sam’s perplexed thoughts, and his words caused another moment of further confusion before the younger brother realised what Bobby meant. It did figure; they had both come to the conclusion that it was the only way to help Dean and prevent him from harming anyone else (and potentially himself) as a result of his insanity.   
A few hours later, it was around 8pm. Night was drawing close, wrapping itself around Bobby’s house like a black anaconda, constricting the building therefore sucking all the air out of the atmosphere. Dean, of course, didn’t know any of this, as he was nowhere near outside, yet he could sure feel the tension in the air as he came round. Surprisingly, no nightmares had plagued him in the time he had been unconscious, only darkness. As his almost sightless green eyes that were bloodshot with exhaustion flickered open, the first thing they settled on was a distant metal devil’s trap, behind which was a fan that was constantly revolving, casting odd shadows around the room. Dean’s vision soon expanded, revealing a round room wrought with iron and a sickly stench of salt hovering around him. A metal desk was sat against the far side of the room, laden with research books and a small lamp. There were a few posters attached to the walls and a make-do bed hanging from the other side. As the hunter glanced down, he found himself lying down on another bed, which must have been where he was resting the past few hours. For a second, Dean couldn’t remember for the life of him where he was, or why, but he soon realised he had been shut in Bobby’s panic room. Shortly after that, the memory of confronting Sam and then falling to the floor came back to him; he couldn’t believe what he had tried to do. Well, he knew it was the pressure of his father, but he found it difficult to believe that he had actually listened to him. Because of that, Dean honestly didn’t blame Bobby and his brother for locking him up in the panic room.  
Thinking of John caused him to appear again, lingering at the corners of his peripheral vision, half in sight, and half just eluding him. Or perhaps he had always been there, and Dean simply hadn’t noticed him. After obeying him, the older Winchester brother figured John would be calmer and would maybe even praise him or offer positive comments for following his orders; however it was quite the opposite.   
“I thought you’d have learnt by now, son. That obeying my orders is always the best thing to do, no exceptions. But you clearly don’t think that way. You always have to screw things up, don’t you? You can never do the right thing, no matter how hard you try. It’s pathetic.” Spitting out his words as if they were a vile-tasting poison, John marched up and down in a sinister manner behind his son, so that he was entirely out of view. Despite his reluctance to reply, knowing it would only spell further punishment for him, Dean couldn’t help but talk back.  
“I don’t understand – I did follow your orders. I nearly killed my own freaking brother for you, damnit!” The hunter yelled at John, utterly infuriated by his constant lack of satisfaction.   
“That’s what I mean. Nearly killed him. If you had listened to me and done what I asked of you, your previous sentence would be ‘I killed my brother for you.’ But you didn’t. Instead, you let him go because you’re weak. You let that old man get the better of you instead of having the strength to complete your job. I should have known you wouldn’t be able to go through with it.” At that point, John was beginning to sound like a broken record, reiterating the same phrase about his son being ‘weak’ over and over again. But Dean wasn’t going to let his dad walk all over him, not this time. He had to make his feeling known.  
“Oh, I’m weak alright. For listening to you! Damnit, you’re not even real and I was prepared to murder Sammy, who I swore to protect, just because you told me to. I really have gone crazy…” Dean’s last sentence was not directed at John, rather said to himself.   
“Even though you’ve completely lost your mind, you still have to listen to your father. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Pushing his face so that it was mere millimetres away from Dean’s face, John displayed a thunderous expression. His father’s bellowing voice echoed for seconds after he had finished talking, rebounding around the panic room, or rather around Dean’s mind, before a deathly silence fell. The young hunter looked away, unable to hold his gaze and finding the sensation of John’s breath on his face unbearable. Realising his job of scaring his son had been achieved, John also stepped back and faced the other way; doing so meant that he missed seeing a solitary tear slip out of the corner of Dean’s eye and drag itself down his crestfallen face. He knew he was going to ignore his father’s order from now on; that much was obvious. But he just wasn’t sure how long he would be able to put up with the constant hallucinations or nagging from John without breaking down entirely.   
While Dean perched on the edge of his bed in an angst-fuelled trance, John stayed silent, knowing he had almost broken him. Well, technically, it was Dean that was aware that he was nearly broken, but that thought was projected and expressed through John. However, there was nothing more that his father could do for the time being, since he had said all that needed to be said. Fizzling away into the back of Dean’s mind, his physical form dissipating, John departed for now. For a while, the young hunter simply stared into space, his eyes lifeless, mentally speculating about what an absolute wreck he had become. He cast his thoughts back to a mere few months previous, when he was on fire with his hunting, defeating hoards of ghosts or demons and saving twice as many people as usual. Then, he went further back, before he had gone to Hell, before he had even witnessed his baby brother die and sold his soul, to times when it was just plain old hunting jobs, him and Sammy, fighting side-by-side without a care in the world about either of their futures (well, maybe not Sam), not even considering having to struggle with exorcizing demons or even meddling angels. They were young, innocent, and bright-eyed children, despite the fact that they had killed many monsters and were, strictly speaking, grown adults. Dean missed those times, longed for them so badly it was bordering on being tangibly painful. And now, when he looked at himself in the mirror, all he saw was a shell of a man, the shadow of who he used to be.   
Realising that he had been contemplating such comparisons for at least half an hour, Dean abruptly snapped out of his reverie. But when his eyes went back into focus and saw the panic room clearly once again, another figure stood before him. However, this time he was much smaller, like a child rather than an adult. It was fairly obvious it wasn’t his father once he stepped into the light. At first, Dean thought a changeling or something had somehow sneaked into the room, but then he recognised the kid. It was him. Twelve year old Dean, but Dean all the same. Both versions of the hunter stared at each other warily and disbelievingly for a few seconds, and then the younger one spoke.  
“Dean. It feels weird saying that, but you know it’s me anyway. I can tell. After all, I know you better than anyone.” The child began skirting around the edge of the room, keeping his eyes fixed on… well, himself, at all times. It certainly was odd, creepy, even, for Dean to be seeing such a thing. He figured it was another hallucination, that they were getting stranger and more intense; the John thing was kind of getting old, anyhow. The hunter (the thirty year old one) knew he shouldn’t speak to his vision – it would just make him even crazier – but he couldn’t resist. He had to know what his younger self had to say.  
“What are you doing here, kid? You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” Dean’s voice was assertive yet soft, just like when he spoke to any child. He was aware that they didn’t like being spoken to as if they were babies. The Winchester boy was never one to patronise.   
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m seeing what I’ll become. And I have to say, I’d rather die young than turn into you.” Those words struck a nerve with older Dean; even his younger self hated him almost as much as he did. “What happened to being a hunter? What happened to being the righteous man that was meant to stop the world from ending? We were supposed to mean something! We were supposed to save lives! Look after Sammy! How can you do that when you can’t even look after yourself?”   
“Look man, I-”  
“Man? I’m the man? You’re supposed to be the man here, but in reality, you’re more of a child than me. So grow up. Take control! Here you are, locked inside your own mind – weak, pathetic. There has to be some fight left in you. You can’t just give up. I won’t let you. Think of me; think of what I’ll become. Maybe then you’ll decide to fight back and be a worthy man who saves lives instead of rotting in the basement of the house of the people who truly care for you. I don’t care what your reason or your cause is, just do it. Do it, before you ruin my life as well.” After that surprisingly motivational speech from his twelve year old self, younger Dean vanished as well. Before his words could even sink in properly, another far more ominous figure strode out of the gloominess to replace him.   
“Mmm, Dean Winchester…” The demon’s startlingly eerie white eyes shone out like streetlamps on a foggy night, fixated on the Dean’s petrified forest green ones. As he advanced towards him, the almost seductive voice of the demon floated through the air, making Dean want to plug his fingers into his ears and curl up into a ball on the floor.   
“No… You can’t be here…” The hunter muttered, shaking his head in bewilderment and trying to force the man who had terrorised him for forty years, Hell-time, of his life out of his mind.  
“Oh, you must be mistaken. I’m not here – you’re with me. We’re in Hell, Dean.” Even as Alastair spoke, an intense heat fired up from beneath Dean, and he glanced down to see terrifyingly fierce flames rising up from the ground and licking at his shoes, which were dangling right in the centre of them. Raising his head back up to face his demons (literally), Dean discovered his surroundings had changed completely: he was chained to apparent nothingness, the obsidian chain links digging into his flesh, their source obscured by a cloak of red and black, interrupted only by pinnacles of bright white light that he knew must represent other human souls that were enduring similar torture to what he was being put through.   
“No… Not again, not now…” Deep down, the hunter knew it wasn’t real, but that didn’t stop him from being absolutely horrified by the suffocating intensity of his hallucinations. The agony of his torture felt completely real, as did Alastair’s repulsive breath on his face as he leaned in to stick another blade into his chest, carve another intricate pattern. Dean was vaguely aware of a distant screaming sound of excruciating pain, but it took him a good few minutes to realise it was him making the noise. While Dean was struggling to breathe through the clotted blood blocking up his airways, Alastair mocked him with a taunting tone.  
“This might not be real now, but it will be some day. And soon, I think. You’re going to die, Dean. Again. And this, this is where you’ll end up…” At those final words, the demon disappeared, along with his illusion of Hell. However, the Winchester still felt every stab of the knife, every pinch of the chains, and still continued to scream for a while after, yelling out in non-existent pain. But it felt all too real to him. It was evident Dean’s hallucinations were getting worse, and they were showing no signs of letting up.  
Upstairs, Sam and Bobby remained in the living room; Bobby sat at his desk skimming through various research resources, and Sam leaning against the doorframe, one hand placed on his head and an extremely pained expression on his face. They could both hear the excruciating screams emanating from the panic room; the noises that Dean was emitting penetrated their eardrums, almost causing physical (and definitely mental) agony. Bobby could see how much pain Sam was in; listening to his own brother having a psychotic breakdown while he sat around doing nothing, therefore naturally felt the urge to comfort him. Glancing up from behind the abnormal stack of books he had yet to look through, the old hunter sighed before addressing his adopted boy.   
“Look, son: I know this must be difficult for ya, I sure as hell know it is for me. But there’s nothing we can do. We ain’t doctors, so we don’t know how to treat insanity. We ain’t angels, so we can’t heal your brother – hell, even Cas couldn’t. Just hold fire for now, we’ll figure something out.”   
“I know, it’s just… I hate having to do this. Lock Dean up like a wild animal, like he’s out of control.” Sam’s slightly excessive simile made them both wince as they pictured the older Winchester brother desperately trying to escape his cage, trapped and alone.  
“I don’t like it either, but it’s the best place for him right now. While he’s in the panic room, he can’t try to hurt anyone, or himself.” A constant reassurance, Bobby’s sincere yet softened with pity expression made Sam feel marginally better as his comforting words swam around the younger hunter. If anyone was to improve Sam’s defeated mood, it was Bobby. He was the one person that both the brothers could rely on, the one constant in their ever-changing lives. He was better than a father to them. Sam instinctively agreed with Bobby, however reluctant he was about the whole situation.  
“Yeah…” Sam instinctively agreed with Bobby, however reluctant he was about the whole situation. Yet a second later, a plan dawned upon the younger Winchester. “Maybe I should go down there, try talking to him.”  
Bobby’s reaction was immediate. “I wouldn’t do that, son. He’s losing his mind – it’s dangerous to try and intervene. You wouldn’t want to see him like that. Please, just don’t do that to yourself, kid. I suggest you stay up here for now until he calms down a bit, then go see him if you want.” The old hunter kept his voice steady as he attempted to dissuade Sam from making a certainly risky and potentially grave mistake.  
“I’m sorry, Bobby. But he needs me. If anyone can bring him out of his insanity, it’s me. I know him better than anyone. No offense.” The younger Winchester brother was as obstinate, if not more so, than his older brother, therefore Bobby was well aware of the fact that nothing he said would prevent Sam from doing what he was about to do. Honestly, their ridiculous stubbornness will be the death of them boys one day, Bobby thought to himself before replying to his adopted son.  
“None taken. But it’s your funeral, boy.”   
“Thanks Bobby.” Although he sometimes didn’t show it, Sam was always grateful of the old hunter’s wise presence and unrelenting support, even if they didn’t quite agree on certain matters. Bobby nodded in response yet maintained a concerned expression as the younger Winchester brother exited the living room and headed down the dim-lit therefore dingy stairway towards the panic room.   
In the time it took for Sam and Bobby to participate in their previous conversation and for Sam to approach the door of the ominous room, Dean’s screaming had ceased and been reduced to a sinister silence. As the younger brother’s tentative footsteps echoed along the short corridor leading up to the metal vault-like door, the older brother called out to him through the thick iron.  
“Sammy? Bobby? You there?” His voice was extraordinarily difficult for Sam to listen to; it was the voice of a scared and lonely child that was pleading for his parents to stop his nightmares and allow him to live as a normal kid, without feeling terrified or paranoid every time he lay down to rest at night. Dean’s shaky tone was completely out of character for him, and it made his little brother want to run back upstairs, not even back to Bobby, just out of the door to grab an arbitrary car (it didn’t matter which one) and drive as far as possible, away from everything. But he didn’t. Sam knew his older brother had always looked after him, since he was born, and had never left him when he was in trouble, not unless he had to. And now it was his turn to do the same. However, Sam’s feet were still frozen in place and his mouth glued shut as he hesitated right outside the door, unsure as to what he should do next.  
“Sammy? Is that you?” Dean must have been stood extremely close to the inside of the door, as his voice seemed to come from directly in front of Sam and sounded somewhat louder than when he spoke before. Due to being directly addressed by his brother, Sam was hauled out of his unresponsive trance and reached out a hand to slide the metal panel attached to the door across in order to allow them to see each other and talk easier without Sam having to get any physically closer to Dean, which could potentially spell ultimate disaster. A moment later, a pair of terrifyingly wide bloodshot eyes appeared in the centre of the gap, a somewhat brighter green this time, yet whether that was due to the sheer excitement of seeing his little brother again or simply his insanity, Sam couldn’t tell. However, he tried his best to ignore Dean’s perturbing gaze as he prepared to speak with him sincerely.   
“How are you, Dean?” Sam questioned gingerly, knowing that his obstinate older brother would insist he was fine even though it was evident he wasn’t. And it wouldn’t surprise him – it was sort of a Winchester tradition, he knew he was the same. The younger Winchester was mostly right, but Dean’s insanity had clearly changed him by messing with his head so much, as he didn’t outright say he was fine. He was definitely more hesitant due to his breakdown.   
“I’m… okay. No hallucinations at the moment, but then again, I could be talking to one right now, ain’t that so?” Sam could see his brother grinning at him through the panel in the door to lighten the mood; however it was an empty smile. The pure hollow grin of a broken man. To be honest, it made Sam all the more uncomfortable, and admittedly slightly disturbed. He opened his mouth to attempt to reassure Dean, yet he was aware that it would do no good; saying ‘I am real’ is exactly the kind of thing a hallucination would say, therefore the younger brother simply pursed his lips together once again. Realising he had upset Sam, Dean’s smile slid off his face and he coughed nervously, deciding to change the subject.  
“So, uh, what brings you down here anyway?” He winced as soon as it dawned on him that that was an equally awkward thing to say. However, Sammy replied nonetheless.   
“I wanted to see how you’re doing. And… I know this probably sounds stupid to you, but I was going to try to help you.” Regretting his words, Sam hastily tried to explain himself. “I mean… Well- I just thought that maybe talking to you could, you know…” Eventually Sam simply trailed off, deciding it was for the best before he screwed up even more. Fortunately, Dean seemed to understand.  
“Yeah, I know. One minute I think I’m getting better, the next I’m seeing freaking flames rise out of the ground. It’s crazy, but – what the hell – so am I.” This new confession from the older brother shocked Sam again; he had no idea that Dean’s hallucinations were that bad.   
“I, uh… I thought you were only seeing Dad.” Sam couldn’t resist inquiring about his brother’s visions – if he understood his mental condition better, perhaps he had more of a chance of helping him.  
“Oh, he’s still here. He’s always here. But there’s other stuff too, like nightmares of Hell or… just other stuff.” Dean was going to talk about his nightmares of Sammy dying, but he somehow came to the realisation that saying so would concern his brother even more, which was something he was desperately trying to avoid.   
“Is he- is Dad here now?” Sam persisted, aware that his interference could trigger another psychotic episode for Dean, yet he was determined to find out everything about the situation in which they were stuck. As if to check, the older brother leaned back from the panel in the door and peered behind him briefly before returning to stare through the gap.  
“He’s stood right at the back, but he’s not saying anything. I think he’s listening in on our conversation. He does that.” Saying such a thing made Sam vaguely paranoid, despite the fact that he knew John wasn’t real – he couldn’t even see him, but he could almost feel his presence due to Dean’s description, which made him feel more ill at ease speaking with him. Especially since he was just about to attempt to make Dean realise that John wasn’t there. However, the younger brother knew he couldn’t let that get in his way; otherwise, he ran the risk of leaving Dean for too long trapped in his own mind, completely unable to differentiate his hallucinations from reality – he was on the border of that now.  
“Dean: I hate to have to say this, but it needs to be said.” Sam’s voice shared the tone of that of a storyteller when they are about to begin narrating their next tale, a tone with almost a sense of finality to it. It certainly made Dean’s ears perk up. In the corner of the panic room, John stepped forward a little so he could hear his other son’s story too, yet remained silent. “You remember about three years ago, after we had that car crash, me, you and Dad. We were in that hospital: I was fine and wandering about checking on you two, you were nearly dead and Dad was getting better but was still resting. Remember?” Sam could just make out Dean’s head nodding through the gap. “Good. Then you were wandering about as a spirit in the hospital, watching over both of us, me and Dad. But your body started shutting down, so you had to make the decision of staying as a spirit or moving on. Still with me?” Sam asked.  
“Yeah, but I don’t see how this-”  
“Just let me finish, okay?” Sam interrupted, and Dean nodded again. “Right, so you were going to move on, but then you woke up. But soon after that, Dad spoke to you, and you were scared. You thought he was going to do something stupid, or he already had. Correct?” Another, somewhat more reluctant nod. “Then I found Dad on the floor and we both watched the doctors try to revive him-”  
“Okay, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but whatever it is, stop.” Now it was Dean’s turn to cut short his brother. He sounded utterly infuriated and done with Sam’s apparent mind games. As if he didn’t have to put up with enough of them already. Resolute in finishing what he was trying to do, Sam changed tact, but so that the end result would hopefully remain the same.  
“Look, what I’m saying is that we saw Dad die, Dean. You saw his heart stop, you know he’s dead. He’s dead and he’s not coming back.” The younger Winchester knew he was being harsh, but that was kind of the point. In response, a loud bang against the metal sounded from the other side of the iron door as Dean punched it forcefully in a burst of pure rage, disappearing from view through the panel. However, a moment later the older brother appeared to have calmed down, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, since it meant he was silent with renewed melancholy.   
“Dean?” Sam reached out to his brother, and Dean soon returned to the gap in the door, a miniscule collection of tears swelling up in his green eyes.   
“I know. I know that Dad’s not real. He is dead. But you don’t understand. I’m the reason he’s dead. It’s my fault. He would have lived much longer if it wasn’t for me. And the same might happen to you one day. Because of me.” Sam visibly reeled from his brother’s comment – he couldn’t believe Dean would say such a thing. It was definitely his insanity talking, or John. Sam figured it was the latter.  
“What? That’s ridiculous! It’s not your fault that Dad’s dead, Dean. It’s his fault. All of this is. If he was a good father-”  
“He is a good father – better than any of us!” The younger brother couldn’t help noting Dean’s use of ‘is’ instead of ‘was.’ “It is my fault, don’t you see? Everything is! I’m the weak one here; I just don’t want to drag you down with me, Sammy. Please, just go. You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” At that, the older brother turned his back on Sam, collapsing onto the bed and sitting hunched over on the edge, his head in his hands. The younger Winchester was aware of a soft sobbing sound emanating from inside the panic room, the despondent sound rebounding off the metallic walls due to the sheer echo-creating material that the room was built out of. Realising there was nothing else he could do for the time being, Sam slid the metal door-panel back across as quietly as he could and plodded dejectedly back upstairs. When Bobby noticed the younger brother enter the living room once again, he raised his head with a distantly optimistic yet not quite hopeful expression painted on his face, but Sam simply shook his head at him and retired to the kitchen, perching pensively on a dysfunctional wooden stool. It seemed there was no way of helping his brother. And, apparently, Dean no longer wanted to be helped.   
Meanwhile, back in the panic room, Dean remained in a position that emanated a distilled version of his distraughtness. His utter despair increased when John began taunting him again, striding out of the shadows threateningly and resuming his psychological torture. This time, the topic of their one-sided conversation was the recent talk between the Winchester brothers.  
“Wow. You’re actually pushing your brother further away because of me. Don’t you think that’s a bad idea? I mean, the whole point of this is me telling you to save him. Well, kill him, really, but you know how that turned out…” Dean was determined to ignore John for as long as possible in the hope that he would get bored and leave him alone for at least a little while. On the other hand, it could also make his situation worse, as other, more horrendous hallucinations would likely take the place of his dad. However, John was showing no signs of letting up as of yet.  
“Instead, you blow your opportunity to regain his trust. Typical. Now your whole family has abandoned you. What a loser.” That caught Dean’s attention. He actually couldn’t believe that his dad had resorted to petty childish insults such as ‘loser.’ Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad sign – it suggested his crazy mind was running out of ideas.   
A moment later, more footsteps sounded from outside the hunter’s cell. Although it wasn’t a cell, that was ultimately what it felt like to the unstable older brother. Dean would normally cheer up significantly at such a noise; however his pure exhaustion and sullenness had turned him almost completely apathetic. Plus, John’s irritating remarks didn’t exactly help.  
“I wonder who that is… Sam, maybe? Do you think he’s come back to apologise? That would certainly give an entertaining sense of irony, since you should be the one apologising for not helping him. Actually, it’s probably not anyone. Maybe you’re hearing things now as well. Or could it be Alastair, ready for more torture back in Hell. Oooh, never mind. Looks like you’re about to find out.” As the Winchester brother maintained his unresponsiveness, John rambled on, yet as he spoke his last couple of sentences, Dean stood up from his bed and gazed at the metal door. He’d heard the sharp echoes approaching and finally come to a halt right outside the panic room, therefore was silently willing the door (or at least the panel) to be opened. This time, the older Winchester brother was particularly more wary about his visitor; he was almost one hundred per cent sure that Sam had been real (if he had been a hallucination, he would definitely have started insulting him, or, since it was Sam, he would probably have ended up dying in some twisted manner), yet Dean was uncertain as to whether it was Sam this time, like John said, or some horrifying vision. Because of his scepticism, Dean resisted calling out to his visitor, instead waiting in silent trepidation.   
It seemed like an eternity before the owner of the footsteps decided to make their move – they were evidently indecisive and unsure as to what they should do next. However, eventually the sound of metal grating against metal came from outside, and the heavy iron door gradually swung open, revealing the figure of Bobby Singer. He stood quietly, without a word falling from his lips, attempting to maintain an obstinate expression by steeling the softening of his face, yet his stubborn mask slipped slightly to expose a hint of profound concern and pity.   
“…Bobby?” Dean’s rhetorical question was expressed in an extremely tentative matter, solidly proving how his insanity caused him to doubt practically everything.  
“Look, son, I ain’t got time for phatic greetings, so I’ll get right down to it.” Bobby’s harsh exterior and put-on sharp tone worried Dean slightly, as he wondered what on Earth he was going to do or say. Plus, at this point the hunter wasn’t entirely sure if Bobby was real or a hallucination. Ignorant of Dean’s thoughts, his adoptive father continued regardless. “I know your brother probably took the soft approach – the kid pretends to be stubborn but when it comes down to you being hurt, he couldn’t stay that way if he tried. But I’m afraid that ain’t gonna be my way of going about this, since Sam’s plan clearly didn’t work.” The older Winchester visibly grew all the more concerned at that statement; deep down, he knew his adoptive father would never harm him, but John made him doubt that on the surface. Rather than questioning Bobby, Dean simply swallowed and gazed up at him anxiously.   
“The thing is, you think you have to battle through this on your own. For everything that happens; when John died, when Sam died, when you sold your damn soul… Every damn time, you think you’re on your own. You think you’re the only one who can help yourself, so you never accept help from no-one. But in reality, you’re surrounded by family, by friends, who are all willing to support you, willing to help get you through the hard times. And then what do you do? You go ahead and push them away, like an idjit. Damnit, I really wish you’d stop doing it, too. Me and Sam, we’re only trying to help, ya know. Yeah, sure, if you’re seeing things and you can’t tell if we’re real or not, then that makes sense. But you have to try, Dean. You have to try and fight it. Once you fight through the crazy, you’ll be able to see that we’re really trying to help you, and then maybe you can finally let yourself be helped.” After Bobby’s rousing speech, Dean blinked as he took it all in. He knew that everything that Bobby had just said made sense to him, but he also knew that he was helpless, unable to take action and ‘fight through the crazy.’ Dean felt bound by his insanity, therefore couldn’t help himself or ask anyone else for help. He was long past that. Surprisingly, the words of his adoptive father brought him to the realisation that it wasn’t his fault, that his insanity was what had caused all this. He wasn’t weak; he had just been weakened by his descent into psychosis. Despite the fact that Dean was now aware of that, it didn’t make him feel any better. And on top of that, John had started up again.   
“Why are you even listening to him? He’s not your real father. He should mean nothing to you.” But Dean blanked his father again, being stuck in a trance of unresponsiveness. At some point, he was vaguely aware of the door shutting and Bobby departing, but he didn’t bat an eyelid.   
Dean Winchester lay down on his (hopefully) temporary bed, staring passively at the ceiling. Since the object that was directly in his line of sight was the metal devil’s trap and steadily revolving fan, he focused on and studied that for what felt like hours. However, the hunter knew it wasn’t that long, as he used the rotations of the fan as a measure of time; one and a quarter spins was roughly the duration of a second. It was extraordinarily tedious, but he simply had nothing else to do. He knew replying to John (who was generally silent anyway) or calling out for his brother or Bobby wouldn’t help him, and to be completely honest, he was bored. Eventually, a gentle tide of tiredness swept him out to the sea of slumber; therefore Dean closed his heavy eyes and drifted off to sleep for a little while. No nightmares returned to harass him, nor did his father interrupt his unconsciousness. The older Winchester brother did consider the fact that being able to endure restfulness for even a short period of time could possibly be a symptom of his imminent recovery, yet he hardly allowed himself to hope, as per usual.   
On waking ten minutes or so later, Dean was vaguely aware of voices nearby. They weren’t coming from right outside the panic room; however the hunter could hear them fairly clearly, so they couldn’t have been originating from the main area of Bobby’s house either. That left one option: whoever was talking must have been stood at the top of the stairs that led down to the panic room and basement.   
The older Winchester could make out two voices – one sounded like a young man in his mid-twenties, and the other was somewhat lower, the gruff and surly tone of an old man. From those observations, Dean figured that the conversation was between his brother and adoptive father respectively. Due to the distance between them and himself, and also the thickness of the iron door, the lone hunter couldn’t make out all of the words, as their voices were muffled. However, after squashing his head sideways against the metal wall and straining his ears excessively, Dean managed to catch most of what his family were saying.   
“…didn’t say a word…talk some sense into him… still like that now…”  
“…least he’s not shouting…hope he’s okay… Should we check on him?”  
“No… best not to, leave him to rest a while…” Dean recognised the small talk between Sam and Bobby – it was a part of everyday life in their household, usually after the brothers had come back from a particularly difficult hunt, or Cas had told them something important, or just generally after they hadn’t checked in with the adoptive father in a while. Because of this, Dean filtered out their speech after hearing a few broken sentences, yet remained with his ear against the door, listening out for any differing, therefore more significant pieces of information passing their lips. He didn’t have to wait long.  
“…thing is… You boys mean the world to me. I couldn’t care for you more if I tried, even if you are complete idjits sometimes. I’m trying – we’re both trying – to help Dean, but all he sees is John, telling him he’s not good enough or that he’s weak, or whatever the hell he’s sayin’. A good father doesn’t say things like that. I try to keep you boys safe, and boy, will I try doing so ‘till the damn day my reaper comes for me. And the reason why I’ll do that for ya is because I love you both as if you were my own sons. What I can’t understand is how your brother doesn’t see that.” After that, the voices receded as Sam and Bobby walked back upstairs, likely back to the living room for more research, as that was all they could do for the time being.   
For Dean, everything felt like it was changing. Everything in the background, the panic room, John, all faded to black. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the older Winchester brother saw a light at the end of the dark and gruesome tunnel that was his life. He saw a way out; he saw mental liberty, and he saw himself being able to live a life free of stress and free of the feeling that he was restrained by ludicrous doubt. Dean Winchester finally realised what was real: his family. His little brother, Sammy, and his dad, Bobby. They were real, they were the ones who cared about him, and they were the ones who he cared for mutually. Of course, he’d known that all along, but such thoughts had been overshadowed by his hallucinations of John, saying that Bobby was unimportant, or that Sam mattered more than he did. But no. Dean wasn’t weak, and he did matter, just like Sam did and Bobby did. What didn’t matter was John.  
At that stunning revelation that was the inevitable pivotal point of his recovery from insanity, the older Winchester stumbled back from the door and, slowly and deliberately, he swivelled around to face the hallucination of his father, who had been lurking in the corner and quietly observing his son’s reactions.   
“Dean, son? You’re not seriously leaning towards Bobby, are you? You know he’s not your real father – I am.” John spoke first, knowing what Dean was thinking and desperate to manipulate him back to his previous nervous wreck – that way, he could control him better. However, it was too late, and John knew it, as his voice shook with anxiety as he spoke.   
“You’re not my father. You’re dead. You died a long time ago, so it’s too late to try and fix anything. You can’t manipulate me anymore. And do you know why? Because my real family is more important than you.” Dean spoke in a terrifyingly low tone, a dark glint detectable in his eyes as he strode towards ‘John.’ Every word was like a punch in the face to his hallucination, and his father appeared to fade after every pause in Dean’s speech. Aware that he was finally taking control, Dean persisted in his arguing as he advanced ever further towards his ‘dad.’  
“Even when you were alive, you were unimportant. Well, obviously you were important to me back then – I was only a kid, I idolized you. But now, I realise you didn’t mean a thing. You were a terrible father who beat me when I failed in protecting my little brother, which was a job you should have been doing, and you treated me like cannon fodder. So now, I’m taking control and I’m casting you out.” Dean raised his voice just a little louder with every word, to the point where he was nearly shouting. Aware that he had almost faded away entirely, ‘John’ figured he had to fight back, or he would be gone forever, unable to control his eldest son anymore.  
“I AM YOUR FATHER! YOU SHOULD OBEY ME AND DO AS I SAY. I AM NOT LEAVING UNTIL-”  
“You’re not my father anymore. So get. The hell. OUT!” Dean’s final words echoed around the empty panic room for a good few seconds after they departed his lips. Wait a second… empty? It took a moment for the older Winchester to realise that he was, in fact, alone. At long last, after months of psychological torture and isolation, John was gone.  
Meanwhile, back upstairs in the living room, Sam and Bobby could hear Dean abruptly fire up again. Apparently he was yelling at nothing, shouting into oblivion, yet it evidently meant something to him, otherwise he wouldn’t be forcing so much emotion out of his system. Sam closed him eyes and tried to block out the sound of his psychotic brother by finding a calm place in his mind, however no matter how hard he tried, Dean’s screaming still managed to penetrate his skull and crawl into every corner of his mind. It was very much the same for Bobby, but he resisted plugging his fingers into his ears and instead maintained his constant ‘I’m-just-managing-here-to-try-and-make-you-feel-better’ exterior.   
“You’re not my father anymore. So get. The hell. OUT!” Dean’s forceful tone rang unbelievably loud and clear like a church bell and reverberated throughout the totality of the Singer Salvage Yard, including the minds of Sam and Bobby themselves. After that, a not entirely comfortable blanket of complete silence smothered the surroundings and foreseeable future, inferring that something not entirely good had happened to Dean.   
“Does it sound too quiet down there to you?” Bobby asked Sam, raising his eyebrows as he stood up from his desk and prepared to dash back downstairs.  
“Yep. Definitely.” Sam replied in agreement, simultaneously standing up and taking lead as they ventured back to the panic room.   
Immediately after ‘John’s’ departure, Dean had collapsed on the stone cold floor of the panic room. He didn’t know if it was with the exhaustion of his ordeal, or the relief of it ultimately being over, or maybe his physical form had simply given up due to his mind having being put under so much pressure, but he didn’t care. But Bobby and Sam did. As expected, the extremely close family members of the older Winchester would be concerned if they found said Winchester out cold on the floor following yet another outburst due to his recent (and as far as they knew, on-going) insanity. Thankfully, Dean wasn’t unconscious for long. A moment later, his head was rolling about and he was murmuring as his green eyes fluttered open confusedly.   
“Dean! Dean, are you okay?” Sam rushed over to him first after he and Bobby had both wrestled the hefty iron vault door open. The younger brother held Dean’s face in his hands as he gently coaxed him back to his senses.   
“Wha…?” The older brother muttered, looking extremely perplexed as he gazed up at Sammy. It was evident his brain was jumbled up due to his loss of consciousness and obviously he still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that his hallucinations had gone for good yet.   
“It’s okay, Dean, I think you collapsed or something… Can you tell us what happened?” Sam persisted in the kind of sympathetic yet urgent tone that makes you want to tell him everything about yourself. Naturally, Dean complied, yet with somewhat less detail than Sam would have liked.   
“I… Dad… He’s gone.” Staring up at Sam as if anticipating an answer, the older Winchester still had a bewildered expression on his face, almost like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying himself. And he couldn’t; he’d put up with months of seeing John and sometimes interacting with him, getting shouted at by him and physically and mentally abused by him, so why should he believe he’d gone? Seeing the utter confusion in his brother’s eyes, Sam decided that he could take as long as he liked to understand and recover, therefore instead simply hauled him up off the ground and allowed him to lean on his shoulder as they walked upstairs.   
“Come on, let’s get you up.” As Sam did so, he caught Bobby glancing suspiciously at him, as if to say ‘Are you sure you wanna do that?’ to which Sam silently replied ‘Yes, I trust him enough to.’  
Once the old hunter and the two Winchester brothers reached the living room once again, Dean crashed out on the sofa, since he hadn’t sat on a comfortable surface in forever. Sam pulled up a chair and sat by his brother, while Bobby remained standing rather awkwardly in the doorway, deciding this was a moment that the brothers should share between themselves – he could always catch up with Dean personally later.   
“Wait.” Sam and Bobby both turned to stare at Dean as he addressed them. “Before I tell you what’s been happening in my head the past few months – which, to be honest, I ain’t gonna tell you all about, since most of it would mess you up just hearing about it – I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”  
“Sorry for what, son? You ain’t got nothing to be sorry about.” Bobby chipped in before Dean could continue, unable to believe that he was blaming himself for something that was entirely not his fault again.  
“Sorry for pushing you away. Sorry for not letting you help me when I really did need your help. Sorry for actually listening to my hallucinations and believing them over you. Sorry for everything, really.” But the older Winchester didn’t appear to be blaming himself this time. He knew it was his insanity that had caused him to isolate himself, so there was no need for him to feel guilty. However, it was only right that he should apologize to his family. And they knew that.  
“That’s alright, boy.”  
“It’s fine, Dean. Don’t worry about it.” Bobby and Sam replied respectively, brief yet meaningful smiles flitting across their lips. In that instance, Dean knew that he didn’t have to say anything about what he’d been through; he knew his brother and adoptive father wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t force him to if he didn’t want to. So he said nothing more about it. Not for months after. He hinted at various things, and even made humour of it at times, of course, being Dean Winchester and all. But they never asked, so he never answered. He did eventually recover from his insanity, and quite rapidly, too, which did surprise Sam, but not Bobby, since he knew the kid would find a way to battle through anything. Their lives all returned back to normal, or as normal as their lives could get.  
The busy lives of the three hunters didn’t let up – the Apocalypse still happened, and many more challenges faced them. But it was okay, because they stuck together and confronted their demons (literally, in most cases) and always, without fail, defeated them. It was, at times, difficult, as hunter’s lives constantly were, but it usually worked out in the end. Because they stood by each other like any family should.


End file.
